Do Not Fire On the Angel of 221B
by Assan-Mahariel
Summary: The British Men of Letters have finally managed to find the angel that managed to sneak into London. Now that they've tricked Mycroft into giving the all clear, they can proceed with the mission. They cannot trust Mycroft's judgement, not with how close to home this one will be. But this is only the beginning, with the angels closing in as someone prepares to take the fall.
1. Chapter 1

(I don't own Sherlock or Supernatural.)

"We've obtained the location, sir."

"Location?" Mycroft looked up from his phone, a bit irritated to be interrupted from his argument via text messages with his brother.

"Of the angel located in London? We believe we've finally located him," the Man of Letters agent, British division, placed a thin file on Mycroft's desk, "we've got our men in place, Mr. Holmes, and all we need is your approval."

Now that was worth his attention; Mycroft set aside his phone, ignoring the text alert as Sherlock sent an angry reply, "good. Your organization is getting lazy if it has taken this long. I thought you said you were certain no monster was able to get into the U.K. I trust the bullets are made from melted down angel blades?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good," Mycroft picked his phone back up, already texting a reply to his younger brother, "leave the body when you're done. I don't want America's infestation spreading to Britain, and this will leave a nice message to all monsters, especially angels, that Britain is not to be trifled with."

"Will do," the agent nodded, "do you want us to get him while he's in his residence or out on the street?"

"Does his vessel live with anyone?" Mycroft didn't even glance up from his phone, hitting send. Sherlock's angry response didn't take too long to show.

"He's home alone at the moment."

Mycroft nodded, barely glancing up as he typed, "good, less chance of an innocent in the crossfire. Take care of it now."

She nodded, speaking quickly into her earpiece as she exited the room, sending out confirmation for the kill.

Mycroft hit send on his reply, rolling his eyes at his brother. How hard could it possibly be to figure out which store to get milk at? If Sherlock had listened to him in the first place, he could have completed the shopping by now, but no! He had to argue with every single suggestion and point that Mycroft made! It wasn't Mycroft's problem that the closest market had rats, or that the workers at the second closest always were too slow loading the milk from the cold truck to the fridges! And yet it was he that his brother was complaining to!

Irritated, Mycroft turned his attention away from his phone and to the file, wondering what poor sod had been convinced into being an angel's meatsuit. Mycroft turned his bored gaze to the file as he flipped it open, eyes scanning past the name and address without really paying attention to them. It wasn't until he started shifting through the pictures that it really registered. His heart nearly stopped and he quickly turned his attention back to the name and address, hoping that he was mistaken, attention now irrevocably caught.

Mycroft lunged for his phone so fast that he nearly missed the device altogether; there was no time for a text and he tapped onto the needed contact and hit call immediately. Mycroft paced the room as it rang... and rang... and rang. He backed out quickly when it went to voicemail, having to search for the text message icon quickly as he brought up the needed number, typing out his message and hitting send.

No response.

Mycroft let out a shaky breath, refusing to believe that he was losing his composure, and turned back to Sherlock's contact. His brother rarely answered when he called, so he hit the text symbol.

He'd barely typed out 'Where' when his secretary buzzed in.

"Sir, message from Men of Letters?"

"What is it?"

"Target's been neutralized."

* * *

He'd spent yesterday morning cleaning, checking and rechecking his weapon; the rest of yesterday and the early morning today going over every detail in the plan, every scenario that could pan out, everything that might go wrong. So many things could go wrong when hunting such a creature- no, not hunting. That made him sound more like one of those things they have in America, those crude American Hunters. No, he was a professional, a member of the Men of Letters. He was... neutralizing a dangerous animal. Yes, that sounded much better.

Much better than letting it register that the creature was using an innocent person as a vessel, but that wasn't his problem and it couldn't be helped. The vessel would just have to die along with the angel, if the poor person was even still alive, that is.

He took a deep breath and clicked off the safety once he had his weapon ready and on its stand. Beside him, his phone buzzed, and he spared a glance at the screen. A text message showed at the top of the screen from Mycroft Holmes.

 **DO NOT FIRE ON THE ANGEL OF 221B BAKER STREET**

He'd already been debriefed by his superiors; though Mycroft was superior to his superiors, he had already been warned that Mycroft might allow himself to be biased for this mission. He had been ordered to ignore all attempts at a call-off by Mycroft Holmes.

He turned his attention back to his scope, steadying his breathing as his target stepped into view.

The angel stifled a yawn, cradling a mug in his hands as he glanced out the window with a sense of boredom on his face, unaware of the looming danger. He took a sip from his cup before placing it on the mantle and looking towards the table, where a laptop lay. He took a step towards it, unknowingly stepping right into the line of death.

The agent took a deep breath and lined up his shot.

The angel turned, eyes in his direction in the building across the street, as if sensing him, butt it was already too late.

He pullled the trigger.

* * *

I had been residing in his vessel for a while now. For many years, by this point, I supposed. It hadn't been until I had lost the original owner to a bullet wound in the shoulder that I'd actually had to hop into the driver seat, but I had been honorably discharged shortly after the wound. My Grace was weak from being cut off from Heaven.

I had figured that no one would think to look for me in a Londoner. Who expected a wounded army doctor to smuggle an angel into London? The British Men of Letters kept everyone else out, and I was safe.

Well, I guess the bullet in my chest had an argument on the matter of how safe I was. The bullet was unmistakably made from an angel blade, and with my weakened Grace it might just kill me.

The work of a high powered gun, no doubt; it had gone right through my chest and into the wall, splattering the wall with brand new blood paint. My Grace surged from the wound, lighting up the room before I managed to drag it back in, but the wound didn't heal up, the front and back of my shirt already warm with blood. The only reason I was still alive for the moment was because it had missed anything major.

I didn't move where I had fallen and my (well, my vessel's, I guess) blood was already starting to pool.

The worst part was that, when an angel is dying, their Grace flares for a moment. Great for getting somebody to come rescue you, bad when you're trying not to be noticed. If they came for me, the angels would have no trouble dragging me up to Heaven and handing me to Naomi to be brainwashed again. Few have been through it as many times as I have, but the only one who had me beat would be Castiel.

But I had just been shot with a bullet made from an angel blade. It wouldn't be too far off to assume that the angels had already found me.

There was a window in my room. The shooter might be focused on the window they had shot through. They were probably already running before the cops showed. Somebody had to have heard the shot.

Hopefully.

Unless everyone's too used to Sherlock shooting the wall when he was bored to know that somebody may have actually been shot.

I took a deep breath before finally daring to move. Another shot didn't come, so I figured the shooter had gone.

I nearly slipped in my own blood as I pulled myself into a better position, making sure not to get to my feet just in case the shooter showed back up. I shifted and couldn't help the gasp that escaped me as a spike of pain went through me. Right, got shot. Dying.

What a wonderful start to my day.

Despite everything in me telling me not to, I used my chair to painfully pull myself to my feet. My vision shook, but I knew that if I could get to my room, I could grab my gun. I had bullets, not from my own sword, but from blades I had filched off of the occasional angel I'd run across. Unless Michael or Raphael came for me themselves, I could handle whichever angels they send to drag me in until I run out of bullets.

I managed about halfway up the stairs before I crumpled and had to crawl the rest of the way.

I grit my teeth and used my wings to help me crawl along with my arms. It seemed like an eon by the time I got to my room and got the gun out of my drawer. I unloaded the normal bullets and filled it with the angel blade bullets I kept under the false bottom I had put in before leaning against the wall for a quick break.

I heard shouting downstairs and I snapped my fingers. The door slammed shut and locked itself, the handles on both sides still bloody from my hands. Just in time, for only a couple heartbeats later somebody was trying to turn the knob.

Still holding onto my gun, I stumbled over to the window, having found an extra burst of strength to help me escape. I had just barely gotten it unlocked when the door was kicked down and I raised my gun to my head.

They can't take me to Naomi if I'm dead.

"Not another step," I said calmly, even though their faces were swimming in and out of view, but always blurry. There were two of them, and I felt that I should know them. Not a moment had passed before the second, shorter one, came skidding to a stop next to the first.

"John," the taller one said slowly, taking a step forward, "John, put down the gun."

"Stay where you are!" I snapped, having to lean on the windowsill as my legs began to give out. So much for escaping then. I allowed myself to slowly sink down onto the ground, leaning against the wall under the window but still holding my own weapon to my head, "you can't torture me if I'm dead!"

I was confused to feel a large mix of relief and fear and worry radiate off of them.

"PTSD. He must be having a psychological reaction to the gunshot," the tall one said quietly to the other, and there was something familiar about the way he spoke, besides the slight waver in his voice.

"Do you know how to snap him out of it?"

"Absolutely no idea, but I'll try. I mostly left this sort of thing to John and deleted what I didn't need," the tall one said, and I could feel the tall one's attention focus sharply on me, though I couldn't make out their face, "John, we are not the enemy. You are safe now and in severe need of medical attention. You are in 221B Baker Street. I am-"

"I know where I am! You don't want to help me, you want to take me to Naomi to be tortured!" I accused, "you'll have to take me dead, because I will not go with you while alive!"

"-Sherlock Holmes."

I stayed silent for a minute before finding the strength to speak, "Sherlock Holmes... what do you want with Sherlock Holmes?"

The tall one didn't miss a beat, "if you don't drop that gun we'll take Sherlock Holmes instead and give him to Naomi."

The second one elbowed the tall one, but the tall one merely shushed him.

"I... I don't care about Sherlock Holmes," I attempted, but my voice wavered and even a human child could have seen that I was lying. I clicked the safety on and held the gun out to them, "... I surrender."

"Oh, thank God," the shorter one said, while the tall one immediately rushed to my side.

"Sherlock," the short one said to the tall one as more people rushed in, making me tense, "Sherlock, make room for the paramedics."

The tall one moved only a little bit.

"Sherlock?" I wheezed.

"It's me, John," a hand found mine, giving a small hesitant squeeze as if trying to make me feel better but not sure if that was how it was done, "I'm Sherlock. And I promise you, whoever this so called Naomi is, I will not let them hurt you."

And I believed him.


	2. Chapter 2

(I don't own Sherlock or Supernatural.)

John certainly doesn't look like a dangerous monster, especially when he looks so small in the hospital room with the little heart monitor beeping along to his (thankfully stubborn) heart. Mycroft isn't sure what Sherlock would do if he lost the little blogger. And John certainly doesn't act like an angel either, but Mycroft knows that sometimes appearances can be deceiving but there's always that one thing that shows. But he hadn't gotten anything from John that might hint that the man was actually possessed.

Sherlock was curled up in the chair he'd pulled up to the side of John's hospital bed. For the past few days, the younger Holmes had been running himself ragged trying to find the one who had attempted to kill John while at the same time rarely leaving John's side. It seemed that it was too much work for even Sherlock, for Mycroft's brother was asleep and blissfully unaware of what was going on at the moment. Praying (to who would he? Certainly God wouldn't appreciate Mycroft's role in all this), praying that neither John nor Sherlock would wake up, Mycroft slipped the angel blade into his hand and approached the hospital bed.

He almost expected his brother to wake up, or maybe even John from his seemed coma, but neither stirred by the time Mycroft reached John's side. Mycroft silently leaned forward, pressing the tip of the angel blade across John's arm and quickly swiping it diagonally. Blood swelled, but Mycroft couldn't make out any glow. Angels glowed when you hurt them, didn't they? Mycroft didn't see any Grace, and that was good enough for him.

* * *

I woke up in a hospital bed. My arm was burning and when I raised my groggy head I saw blood swelled up on a cut that was already healing. My Grace was weak, mostly centered around where I'd been shot in the hopes of healing the wound. I had barely been staring around, blinking my eyes to get them focused, when I heard a sharp intake of breath that was audible even with my frantic breaths of panic as white walls filled my vision.

"John," hands grabbed onto my shoulders and familiar eyes peered into my own even as I flinched, "John, what is the last thing you remember?"

I squinted and weakly swatted at the hands on my shoulder but they didn't lost their grip.

"Sherlock?" I blinked, and the world finally came into focus. I let out a sigh of relief and slumped back onto the bed upon realizing that I was in a hospital room on a hospital bed. The white walls had made me panic for a second, thinking that I had been found and dragged to Naomi.

Sherlock nodded, glancing into my eyes, "I had not expected you to be conscious so quickly. You lost so much blood that it should have killed you, and the bullet did quite a bit of damage."

"Bullet?" I frowned and cringed, remembering the event with the unfortunately exceptional memory of an angel. I could remember it down to the last detail, "I don't remember much."

He nodded, and I was glad that he accepted this answer, "you were pretty out of it by the time Lestrade and I were able to make it to your apartment. I would be surprised if you remembered anything after being shot."

Sherlock settled down into a chair that had been pulled up to my bed. The comfortable way in which he got situated in the seat gave me the impression that he was familiar with the chair; I'll admit that I was touched by the idea of my friend caring so much that he stayed by my side.

"You're probably tired," Sherlock decided, fingers tapping out some sort of unknown melody on the armrest of the chair, "seeing as this is the first you've been conscious in the past few days."

"Days?" I frowned at the idea and settled back down onto my bed with my body tensed despite my attempt to appear relaxed, "Sherlock, exactly how long have I been out?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, a look of indifference on his face though something flickered in his eyes and I could sense a feeling of concern blaze in his chest, "as I said, Watson. A couple days. Do pay attention. It has been quite boring, waiting for you to wake up."

I gave a small smile, "you were waiting for me to wake up? I would have thought that you would have barely noticed I was gone."

By the way his beloved violin lay on the windowsill and his precious skull was carefully positioned next to the tv, Sherlock had more than noticed.

"Don't downplay your own importance, John," Sherlock waved his hand dismissively and stretched out in the chair as if he was a lounging tom cat, "I would be lost without my blogger."

We sat in silence for a while before Sherlock, surprisingly, broke it.

"John..." Sherlock paused, as if he was trying to think about the impact his words may have, something he probably wasn't used to. It apparently wasn't enough to stop him from continuing, "John, when we found you... you thought we were enemies come to take you to someone who you called.. Naomi."

I stiffened at the name.

"No," I said.

"That is barely an acceptable answer," his sharp eyes focused intently on me. No doubt he was reading every move I made, trying to determine the significance behind Naomi.

I clenched my eyes shut, "Sherlock, **please** don't ask me about Naomi. Please."

Sherlock's face pinched in a frown, and a bit of anger (at Naomi and what he suspected her role was or my unwillingness to talk about her, I don't know) radiated from him before he shoved it down, "fine."

I was surprised that he had complied so easily, and we settled back into silence for only a couple moments before Sherlock spoke again.

"The bullet was made of a silver resembling material, but as of yet the type of metal it was made from is undetermined," Sherlock told me, "it resembled the material of the bullets you keep in your nightstand."

"I told you not to go through my things, Sherlock. I've told you that before."

"I didn't," Sherlock huffed, "your hands must have been shaking, most likely from blood loss, when you replaced the bullets in your gun with the ones from your nightstand. There was blood scraped off on the top of the drawer on the outside from you opening the drawer to get the other bullets. A significance perhaps?"

"So you didn't go through my things, merely examined them?"

"Exactly."

I shook my head and let out a weary sigh; it was far easier to just not argue with the man, "fair enough, Sherlock."

Sherlock nodded, "I knew you would understand. I also needed to search the..." Sherlock hesitated, as if having to talk himself into speaking the word, "I... needed to search the crime scene for clues."

I nodded in understanding, but before the conversation could proceed, the door clicked as the handle was turned. The nurse that entered looked quite surprised to see me awake, and quickly hurried off. By the time I was finally discharged from the hospital that night, the conversation had been dropped. It may have been resumed upon me having settled down at Baker street, but we had barely gotten comfortable (with me on the couch, bandages wrapped around my chest, seeing as a wound from angel blade material was not included in the angel quick healing package) when there came a knocking at the door.

I'm not sure why Mycroft bothered to knock since right afterwards he let himself in, much to Sherlock's annoyance.

"John Watson," Mycroft gave a smile that probably didn't go farther than an inch deep, and he gave me a polite nod. The emotions coming off of him left me wary; if Mycroft felt guilt when he looked at me- no, no, he probably just thinks that he should have been able to do more. Yes, that's it. Mycroft couldn't have anything to do with what happened... right?

"Mycroft," Sherlock huffed, as if having Mycroft in close proximity was a horrible offense, "yes, John is fine. I am fine. Everybody is fine. You can leave now."

"I need to speak to Dr. Watson, actually," Mycroft swung his umbrella casually before letting it tap against the floor.

"And you can't say it with both John and I in the room?"

"I'm afraid not."

Sherlock looked like leaving me alone with his brother was the worst idea he'd ever come across, but I spoke up in the hopes of avoiding an argument between the Holmes brothers, "it's fine, Sherlock. I can speak with Mycroft."

When I went to get up, I had to bite my lip to avoid from crying out as the movement jostled the bullet entry point and exit point.

"I'll go," Sherlock said, giving me a look that clearly said that I was stupid to think I could just get up and moving, "I never got the milk anyways, what with having to rush back here with Lestrade."

With this said, Sherlock gave his brother a suspicious glare and moved towards the door.

"I can't help but wonder how you knew John had been shot, Mycroft," Sherlock whispered sharply and quietly as he passed his brother, quiet enough that his brother would hear it but I (well, if I had been human instead of an angel with enhanced hearing) would not, "if you-"

"I assure you that I have Dr. Watson's best interests at heart, little brother, and if you do as well, you will allow me to speak to him," Mycroft hissed back.

Sherlock gave his brother a rather impressive glare before whipping out the door; he slammed it behind him as if this would assure Mycroft that he was deadly serious.

Mycroft looked to me and was silent for a moment before making his way to my chair and making himself comfortable. He crossed his legs and rested his umbrella on the ground, finger tapping against the top of it.

I did not give in to the silence, patiently waiting for Mycroft to speak first.

Once he was certain the silence wasn't going to make me speak, a small spark of respect fluttered in Mycroft's chest before he spoke, "you must know why I'm here, John Watson."

"To speak with me about how I almost died?" I guessed, wincing as I tried to find a comfortable position on the couch.

"I'm here about the angel that, until recently, was riding around in your body," Mycroft's expression immediately grew serious.

My vessel's heart (or would it be my own, since I'm the only one in it?) skipped a beat. Mycroft must have found some hint of my fear on me.

"I figured you knew," Mycroft nodded, "I hope you understand that the cut on your arm was merely a precaution so I could make sure it was gone."

I rubbed at the already healing wound, for once thankful that the use of angel blade kept my Grace from healing my vessel at an unnatural speed and that my Grace was too weak and too centered around the major wound to be noticed in a simple cut on my arm.

"Do you know which angel it was that was possessing you?" Mycroft tilted his head, and I felt a sense of nostalgia for my brother, Castiel, at the action.

I nodded, worriedly pulling my wings in, "Kalaziel. The- the angel's name was Kalaziel."

"Kalaziel.." Mycroft spoke the word as if trying it out, "an angel who thwarted disease, correct?"

It felt odd, yet somehow comforting, hearing my name spoken aloud for the first time in so long.

"Demons of disease," I corrected, "um, h-he said that Phounebiel was the one who thwarted disease."

"He must have chose you over a connection over that. You were an army doctor, correct?" Mycroft asked, though we both knew that he knew I had been.

"Yes," I confirmed anyways, "I was an army doctor."

"Kalaziel," Mycroft said, and I had a moment of panic when I thought he was addressing me before he continued speaking, "do you have any further information? What was he doing here? Why lead you to Sherlock? What were his intentions? Are there more angels in Britain?"

"I... he.." I closed my eyes and took a deep breath before opening my eyes, "he didn't tell me much. He was only here because he cut himself off from Heaven. Maybe if he had had all his Grace instead of only a little weakened bit, he may have been able to survive..."

Fortunately for me, I was able to access the vessel's brain and transmit the sort of body language I needed for Mycroft to believe my words. It was difficult, especially with how weak my actual form was at the moment, but it seemed to work.

"Dr. Watson," Mycroft leaned forward, as comforting as Mycroft was ever going to manage to get, "I understand that you may be suffering from... a sort of Stockholm syndrome. Angels are not as innocent as they have been made out to be. They may have been kind and wonderful once, but now they are dangerous. Monsters like all the rest that must be kept from harming humans. Kalaziel, however nice he may have seemed, as nice as something possessing your body may seem, did not actually have your best intentions at heart."

I shut my eyes, each word stabbing into me like angel blades.

"I know this might be painful to hear, but I need you to understand, John," Mycroft continued, "angels are monsters. Do you know about an organization called the Men of Letters?"

I nodded, not opening my eyes.

"Impressive, but not surprising from one who was possessed by a creature that needed your cooperation," Mycroft said, "how, exactly, did Kalaziel first possess you?"

I clenched my eyes shut. Maybe if I stayed silent he would move on in his interrogation.

Mycroft let out a huff of annoyance, "Dr. Watson, it would be beneficial if you answered, and do answer honestly. If you were possessed outside of London, then I need to know how the angel got you past the wards. If you were possessed inside of London... John, I need to know how the angel got into London."

I opened my eyes, my wings cramped what with lying on the couch, so I stretched them as much as I could before pulling them back in, close to me. I liked my chair because I could rest my wings over the back.

"John."

"It was a long time ago."

It had been a long time ago, in human terms. Long enough for me to become accustomed to human ways. John had been a teenager still, at the time, but his father was too much of a drunkard to notice John's absence. I was able to get my mission done and even returned the boy before his father even noticed he was gone, if he ever would have. After that, John was one of the vessels I returned to during the rare times I was sent to Earth to do something, but unlike most of my siblings I would leave my vessel once the job was done. This was something that went against the 'soldiers need to be prepared' thing we were supposed to go by, but other than occasionally sending me back to Naomi, nobody did much to stop me from it and I had several other vessels I often used once John started getting busy, such as when he started medical school.

When I ran away from Heaven and cut myself off, I moved permanently (for now) into John's body, where I've been ever since. I stayed mostly in the back of his mind, at least until he got shot and I had to take control as his spirit left. If not for Castiel, though, I may have never found the courage to rebel and run away in the first place.

But, of course, I couldn't tell Mycroft all of this.

"When I was in the field," I said, "I had a young man dying, nothing I could do to help him. He had a family back home and a girlfriend he was going to propose to when he got home. Kalaziel came to me and told me that he could save the boy's life, but first he had to ask me a question."

"And he told you that all you needed to do was say yes?" Mycroft guessed.

"Exactly," I said, praying to my Father that Mycroft would not notice my lie of how I got my vessel. In truth, I had come to John while he was in high school and I promised that I could make his life better, could keep his dad from hurting him as much. I kept my promise, flying down to give him an excuse to be out of the house whenever his father had been drinking especially bad and making sure his sister was safe too.

"They're sneaky little things," Mycroft said with a nod, seemingly pleased with the tale I had spun, "you probably felt you had no other choice but to say yes."

"There are no other angels in the U.K," I promised, "there was only Kalaziel. Whenever he wasn't helping me save somebody's life, he mostly just stayed in the back of my head."

"That would explain how he managed to get in," Mycroft nodded along with my words, "he may have been too deep to set off the wards."

That may have been it, except for the fact that I was the only one in this vessel when I flew back into London, not to mention that I had been coming into Britain long before this point, since I knew how to get past the wards.

"And you are sure that Kalaziel is dead?"

"If he survived, then he hasn't come back," I said, rolling over to face away from Mycroft and hissing softly in pain when I jostled my wounds. I hoped he was almost done talking to me.

Mycroft was silent for so long that I would have thought he had left if I couldn't hear his heart beating.

"If you ever need to talk, Dr. Watson, know that you can give me a call," Mycroft said, finally, "and the Men of Letters does have a therapist that might be helpful to you. I can give you the number if you want it."

From the sound of pen against paper near my chair where he was sitting, I assume that it didn't matter if I wanted the number or not.

"I'll let the person being paid to distract Sherlock know that he can leave my brother, now," Mycroft said, fingers tapping against his phone's screen, "so I suspect that my dear brother will be back shortly. I do hope you'll take my advice, John. The number is under your chair cushion, so that you may keep it from Sherlock. No doubt he would want to know what it is for. And I trust you know that Sherlock is not to know of the supernatural."

"I would never do that to him," I promised, "knowing Sherlock, he would want to investigate it."

"Good," Mycroft agreed, "good day, Dr. Watson."

When I heard the door open and close as Mycroft left, I couldn't help but be relieved.


	3. Chapter 3

(I don't own Supernatural or Sherlock.)

This time, when the file was dropped in front of Mycroft, he paused to give it a long hard look. The vessel the angel was using was unfamiliar, unimportant to Mycroft or anyone important to Mycroft. Even so, he took a couple minutes looking through it silently, until the Men of Letters agent started to squirm.

Finally, when he was satisfied with how uncomfortable the agent was, Mycroft shut the file and focused his gaze directly onto the agent's eyes.

"Your organization would crumble without my support," Mycroft said, "how many agencies do you think would be horrified by what goes on in the Men of Letters?"

The agent didn't reply, gaze leaving his as the agent pretended to be interested in the carpet.

"And what if the public found out? And don't think I don't know about what your organization does to those members that... gain a conscience. Does the name Mick Davies ring a bell?"

The agent's face flushed, be it from shame embarrassment or anger at the jab, Mycroft did not care.

"Let your higher ups now that Mycroft Holmes is not one to be trifled with. There are no loopholes to working with me. So blatantly ignore me again, and I'll make sure that... well, I do believe the threat speaks for itself, don't you think?"

The agent swallowed and quickly nodded, growing more and more uncomfortable by the second.

Mycroft turned his focus back onto business, "this angel may very well be the same one that was in the last vessel. It makes sense that he would survive as his vessel did, and escape into a new one. Take it out, but if it hops back into John Watson, inform me and wait for new orders."

The agent nodded quickly, "we'll see to it."

"You were the one sent to take out Kalaziel in the first place, weren't you?" Mycroft asked casually as the agent turned to leave.

The agent's face flushed, flinching at each passive aggressive hiss from the papers Mycroft was shuffling through.

"Yes," the agent answered, no sign of regret on his face. The agent felt his annoyance manifest, and couldn't help but speak further, "and that was the first and last time I'll miss my target."

Mycroft looked up from the file, turning the words over in his head as he looked for a threat in them, but the agent wasn't stupid and had already scurried out the door.

* * *

Sherlock fluttered around like a lost bird as I slowly made my way down the stairs. He raced down the steps, and then would quickly race back up them to hover around me uncertainly before rushing back to the door.

"Who cares about the stupid case," Sherlock decided finally, when I had just reached the bottom of the stairs wincing and cringing when I moved too quickly, "it will be boring anyways. Let us get you back to the couch, now."

"If I spend one more second cooped up in here I'll die," I complained, "and I am not going all the way back up. You're practically racing up the walls, Sherlock. I can get to the case. We've been stuck in the flat for long enough. I'm making my way down, see?"

"Slowly," he whined, opening the door and waiting until he was sure I had safely crossed before stepping through himself and shutting it behind him. He rushed towards the waiting cab, but quickly raced back to help me down to it. Sooner than I thought I could manage but probably still too long for Sherlock, we finally got into the cab and were on our way.

The closer we got to the building where the body was located, the less irritable Sherlock became. By the time the roped off area came into view, police lights flashing from the police vehicles nearby, he was absolutely bouncing in his seat. So caught up in excitement, Sherlock was, that the minute the cabby stopped the cab, the detective was out like a shot. I quickly paid the cabby and eased my way out of the cab. I used a cane to steady myself, so the sound of it tapping against the pavement as I carefully made my way towards the crime scene made the memory of my first case with Sherlock rise up in my mind. I couldn't help but glance back at the cabby who had drove us here, but his soul looked well off and he was already pulling away.

The officers around the door paused to glance my way, but one of them moved over to lift the tape for me to get in. Usually Sherlock was there to lift it for me, but it seemed being shut in while I recovered enough to move around had made him impatient (well, more than usual) to get to the crime scene.

"The Freak's already in there," Donovan looked up to inform me as I passed her in the stairway (the body was on the second floor, after all).

I felt the usual tinge of anger at the nickname for my friend (she wants a freak? She should have seen me when I first took a human vessel. It made Sherlock look like the king of social interactions). I bit down the anger and nodded in greeting, the only sign of my irritation being in the slight narrowing of my eyes and the fluffed up feathers on my wings; not that she can see my wings, of course.

"It's good to see you, John," Greg Lestrade smiled when he saw me enter the room where the body was, and I could sense that his words were honest, "it's been a long month without the two of you running around our crime scenes."

"Should be good as new, soon," I said hopefully.

"Shh!" Sherlock snapped, "everybody shut up!"

I turned my attention to where Sherlock was and found myself freezing.

Now that I was paying attention, it was easier for my weakened Grace to pick up on the residual Grace hanging around the room. I found myself moving forward slowly, eyes focused on the body. It was with great effort that I eased into a kneeling position next to Sherlock next to the body.

"The killer killed quickly, but then took his time," Sherlock said, eyes glancing over the wing outline burned onto the floor, "most interesting that-"

"The wings are mangled," I said aloud, fingers hovering over the ashes of what had once been an angel's wings. My heart chest felt suddenly heavy and my lungs seemed a bit too small, even though I didn't need to breath.

"Yes," Sherlock's eyes darted to me and he frowned before his attention focused sharply onto the body, "what do you think, John?"

It wasn't until I felt all eyes on me that I looked up, "what?"

Sherlock frowned again and leaned in a bit closer. His voice was hushed, "is something wrong, John?"

"Oh," I quickly shook my head, "everything's fine, Sherlock."

I looked back towards the body, but it wasn't the body that had my wings drooping in grief. It was what the body had held. And the wings... what had happened to my poor sibling? From the outline of where their wings had burned in death, it seemed as if they lacked most of their feathers and-

Sherlock shifted his balance, crouching next to the body unlike me, "gunshot wound to the chest. I'll take it that was what killed him, but they shot him again for good measure."

Sherlock looked to me before back at the body. I could sense a festering anger growing in his chest.

"These are the same people who shot me," I confirmed his suspicions, "seems they've learned their lesson about only shooting once."

Sherlock nodded, about to start his deductions when my phone rang.

I gave my friend the most apologetic look I could after noticing the glare he shot me; I quickly pulled out my phone, about to silence it when I saw the name that had popped up on screen. I bit my lip nervously before answering, "hello?"

"John," Mycroft's voice greeted me, "Sherlock can't be allowed to do this case."

I bit down harder on my lip, accidentally making my vessel's bottom lip crack. I swiped the little bead of blood away before answering, ignoring Sherlock's expression; when I spoke, I was displeased when my voice came out tense and a little angry, "why?"

"I think we both know the answer to that question, John."

"Would you like to speak to Sherlock, instead?"

"I think we both know he won't listen to anything I tell him. But... I did find something that may interest you."

I got slowly up to my feet, careful not to jostle myself too much as I listened, heart dropping with every word Mycroft said. I lowered the phone and gave Sherlock an apologetic look, "Sherlock-"

"Who is that?" he asked, voice emotionless as he stood too, the body before us seemingly forgotten, "bad news I take it? From who?"

"Sherlock, we're off the case."

"What?" Lestrade straightened up immediately. Sherlock's only response was a narrowing of his eyes.

"Besides," I said quickly, holding the phone out towards Sherlock, "we have... worse things to worry about."

Sherlock took the phone from me but didn't raise it to his ear.

"Worry about what John?"

"There's been a kidnapping of two children... Mycroft thinks it's Moriarty."

* * *

"SHERLOCK!"

A brother who does not feel sentiment feels his eyes water as the scream pierces the air. He looks away, a tinge of shame paining in his chest at the pain in John Watson's voice.

A detective who has pulled off the greatest trick of the century teeters on the edge of giving it all up in response to his friend's scream. Only the knowledge of what's at stake keeps him from revealing the truth.

An angel feels so much pain in his heart that his true voice edges his scream, making it a little bit louder than should be possible for a human, making it so nobody in close vicinity can miss hearing it. He is too distraught to realize the detective's heart still beats, and his head feels too light for his vessel's body; lightning crackles across the sky in response to his agony, and for only a second the shadows of two wings are revealed on the ground behind him. Nobody around him is looking in the right spot to notice them.

In Heaven, all the angels feel the explosion of grief swarm the angel radio. They all freeze as Kalaziel's screams echo through angel radio, each one shivering at the pain. There are some strong enough to look past it, their focus turning to London at the discovery of the location of an angel long since lost. An angel who had never fallen. An angel whose wings had not been ruined.

Staring from a dark window, an agent of the British Men of Letters grins. It was quick, but the wings on John Watson's shadow, illuminated by the lightning unintentionally summoned, were unmistakable to his trained eyes.

"Got you."

The angels and the agent do not know that their words are echoed by each other.


	4. Chapter 4

(I don't own Supernatural or Sherlock. I'm surprised by how positive a reception this story has gotten, and I just wanted to say thank you to each and every one of you! So thanks! 😸)

Mycroft knew how stubborn John Watson was.

That's probably why Mycroft was surprised that, only a week after Sherlock faked his death, the doctor must have pulled the slip of paper out from beneath his chair's cushion because Mycroft's sources alerted him to the fact that John Watson had contacted the suggested therapist.

Mycroft tapped his fingers across his desk, watching the security feed on his camera. John climbed the steps slowly, even though he seemed to have completely healed by this point from his gunshot wound -Mycroft refused to allow the idea to fester that perhaps John Watson had healed more than he should have been able to from such an injury- and paused in front of the door.

For a minute or two, Dr. Watson stood in front of the door. Mycroft watched John, and John watched the door, but John didn't even reach for the doorknob. Without even having gone inside, John turned on his heel and briskly started walking down the steps back towards the road. His head was already moving as he looked around for a cab he could call over.

"Not this time, Dr. Watson," Mycroft huffed, knowing of John's reluctance to actually go to his therapist appointments. The eldest Holmes reached his hand over and pressed a button on his buzzer, "Anthea, please alert Ms. Valentina that her current patient is outside the door of her building."

Mycroft sat back in his seat, feeling quite pleased with himself as Anthea gave an affirmative over the comm. Mycroft had promised Sherlock that he would help the blogger in the detective's absence, and that was exactly what he was going to do.

* * *

"Dr. Watson?"

I cringed and froze, halfway to the safety of the street where I could escape into a cab.

"Dr. Watson! Hello!"

I could sense that the woman was somehow just as chipper as she seemed. When I turned around, I saw that the lady hurrying down the steps in her little purple blouse and purple skirt was quite plump and when I took a glance at her soul I saw that it was quite a good one. She reminded me a bit of Mrs. Hudson, but I figured she was a little younger, with color still in her honey colored hair though the roots were beginning to grey. And her physical appearance was different, of course, but she still had that pleasant grandmother look to her.

She was breathing a bit heavily by the time she descended the two sets of stairs, but she didn't seem to have lost any of her enthusiasm and clutched my hands tightly in her own when she reached me. It seemed a friendly gesture, but when she started back towards the building she was still holding onto one of my hands. I didn't want to accidentally hurt her by pulling my hand free, so I grudgingly followed her back towards the front doors.

"I'm Ms. Valentina's secretary, dear," she huffed out between deep breaths, "you poor thang, you'll be alright now. The buildin's got nothin in it. Ms. Valentina said you're a one a them cases. Was it ghosts? Most who're a bit traumatized don't real trust our buildin here. Don't you worry none, the foundation's got salt mixed in and-"

"You, uh, know of the Supernatural?" I asked, a bit surprised.

"Oh, of course!" she let out a pleased giggle and glanced back to cast me a wink, "I may not look it too much anymore, but I was quite an agent back in my day. Why-"

I spoke up, a bit fearful of the idea that she was enough like Mrs. Hudson to go on endlessly, "I was wondering if maybe we could move the date for the appointment-"

"Oh, it's already a been a paid for for today," the woman waved her hand dismissively.

"Are you... American?"

"Originally, yes, I sure was," she confirmed, opening the doors and beckoning me in with a warm smile, "I came over here quite a bit ago, now, and my parents had been Men of Letters fore they got wiped out. When I found some Men of Letters ovah here, I managed to get em ta let ma in."

"Impressive... I guess," I couldn't help my nervous glance around as she lead me through the building. The building was a bit fancy, but it still reminded me too much of a hospital than was comfortable.

"Right down dat hall and take da elevator to da left, dearie, it'll be da third door on da right," she said, returning to her seat behind a fancy glass desk.

"Right," I cast a forlorn glance towards the doors before looking back to the secretary, "I don't believe I ever got your name?"

"Oh," she let out a surprised hum and adjusted a bronze name tag on her desk that said 'Abigail Pine', "you can call me Abigail, dearie."

Trying not to linger on thoughts of what the Men of Letters needed so many floors for (and trying to keep my vessel's heart at a normal pace even though I had practically walked into a building full of people who didn't know that they wanted me dead) and even though taking the elevator was the last thing I wanted to do, considering the fact that my wings always feel a bit cramped in elevators, I walked down the hall as casually as I could.

When the doors opened, I hurried into the elevator and jabbed my finger into the 'close doors' button. It didn't close right away, but I had the elevator to myself when they finally did. The doors opened at the fifteenth floor sooner than I would have liked. I took a deep breath to prepare myself, even though I have no need for breathing, and made my way to Ms. Valentina's door. It was open, and so I took a hesitant first step into the room.

A slim woman with long black hair and a heart shaped face looked up from a small file of papers she was flipping through. Her eyes were a warm brown, but her appearance didn't make me feel anymore at ease.

"Dr. Watson, I presume?" the woman adjusted her pinstripe skirt and then gestured to the armchair across from her, "please, John, take a seat."

I glanced at the floor, but I didn't see any holy oil gleaming on the smooth tiles around the seat, so I did as asked of me.

"I'm Ms. Valentina," she introduced herself, "I've had calls from Mycroft himself; you must be a very special patient."

"Special as in my case, or special as in my connections to him?" I asked.

Ms. Valentina put her file down on the nightstand next to her own chair, exchanging it for a notepad and a pen, "I only want to help you, Dr. Watson. Why don't you start at the beginning? How did the angel called Kalaziel first gain your permission?"

There must have been something in my expression because her eyes glanced quickly towards the file then back at me.

"I assure you, Dr. Watson, that all information I have on you was given to me by Mycroft Holmes. Anything further, you may give me yourself. It may be odd, talking to someone about your experience after having most likely kept it to yourself for so long, but I will not judge you for your past actions. I have heard many supernatural cases before."

I clenched my eyes shut, pulling my wings in closely. I wished I could talk to somebody about how I felt, what I was going through. My best friend was dead and I was painfully alone in my vessel. Alone. The real reason I had actually pulled that slip of paper out and called to make an appointment was bacause the loneliness plagued my every step. Even Mrs. Hudson's chattering couldn't keep it away (even though she came by more than before and hung around a bit in an attempt to make me feel better, which helped a little through her effort at it). Some part of me had hoped that, somehow, coming here would help. Somehow.

I couldn't tell her the truth, though. I couldn't tell anyone.

But maybe I can twist it, just enough to help. My wings drooped so much lately that they dragged behind me a bit whenever I walked. Everyangel knows you need to get emotionally better when you can barely find the will to lift your wings up, even though usually that 'help' was getting sent to Naomi. She'd drill your worries right from your head. Literally.

Besides, no reason to worry about anything when you're just a soldier.

But I wasn't in Heaven. Naomi couldn't get me. Something told me this way would be less painful and permanently damaging.

"Whenever you feel ready to speak," Ms. Valentina assured me, "I know this might be hard for you."

I opened my eyes, blinking quickly and glancing up to keep the tears from falling.

"I..." I cut off, but let out the closest thing to the truth that I could, "I can't help but feel like- but think-" -if I had just linked back in to Heaven, I would have managed enough Grace to save him, they would have found me but at least Sherlock would have been okay- "-that if Kalaziel was still possessing me, he might have been able to... to save Sherlock."

Ms. Valentina jotted something down, and I felt a little paranoid, but I couldn't read what it said since it was in code. Ms. Valentina caught me trying to see what she had written, but she didn't say anything about it to me.

"Sherlock Holmes was your best friend, wasn't he?" she asked, tone careful and comforting.

"Yes," I admitted, "the best one I've ever known."

"Do you think he would have wanted to be saved?"

The room was silent for several minutes before I found the courage to speak, "Mycroft made him do it. I know he did. Sherlock wasn't a fraud. He wasn't!"

"I believe you, John."

I blinked, surprised, before a small smile managed to make its way onto my face, "that... that means a lot to me to hear you say that."

Ms. Valentina nodded and wrote something down in her notebook. Something about the way she did it put me at ease. I even found myself relaxing and easing back in my seat instead of sitting on the edge of it.

A part of me found paranoia in this, and I went to spread my Grace out to scan the area before remembering that I had so little Grace left that I was practically a human that was immortal and had two wings that were invisible to most. You know, cause that's so humanish. No scanning the area then.

I glanced around with my eyes, but nothing looked out of the ordinary other than a thing of incense on a stand in the corner. Sherlock had once rambled on about how different smells can help with different things. The smell must be able to help people feel calm. It did smell rather nice.

"Do you keep in touch with anyone?"

"...No," I admitted, "but Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, stops by sometimes to keep me company."

She scribbled something down, "how are you doing, when it comes to your house of residence? Sherlock Holmes was your flat mate, correct? I suppose there must be things there that remind you of him."

I glanced down at my hands, "well...I'll either have to find another flat mate or I'll have to leave. I don't think I can afford the flat on my own. But I can't find it in me to move his stuff or anything, and I can't find it in me to leave it."

Terrified to leave it, too, seeing as how I had that building warded against practically everything but angels (I wouldn't be able to get in or out if it was warded against angels). At the time I moved in, I had enough Grace to instantly do all the wardings. Now?

No matter how safe the Men of Letters believes London to be, I'm not taking any chances. A lot of the things that go bump in the night would love to stumble across a practically powerless angel like me.

* * *

A sharp gasp pierced the silence

Breathing, quick and rapid and heavy. Two hands scrambled and clawed, feeling for a wound that was no longer there.

Alive.

He was alive.

The breathing slowed. Evened out.

He sat up, blinking and staring at his odd surroundings. He instantly recognized the Grace that permeated the walls and it set him at ease; last time he'd known, the owner of this Grace was someone he could trust. There was a rustle behind him and he glanced over his shoulder only to stare in shock at what he saw.

Two, huge black wings sprouted from his back, intact and with every feather accounted for. The fading light from a nearby window hit the feathers and they gleamed a raven blue. He flapped them in amazement before getting to his feet.

Father must have brought him back, then.

He looked around, examining his surroundings. An odd little place, with bullet holes in a smiley face sprayed onto a wall above the couch; there was even what looked like a human skull on the mantelplace. Or, he realized as he neared it for a closer look, an actual skull.

He spun around when the door opened, but it was only a plump little woman who let out a surprised gasp when she saw him. She calmed down rather quickly though.

"Are you a friend of John's? Is he here right now? I'm sorry to interrupt anything, dear, I was just hoping he would be up to some tea. He's been awfully sad ever since Sherlock, and I like to come over to cheer him up. I'm the landlady here, Mrs. Hudson."

"John?" he frowned; hadn't John been the name of the vessel of-

"Are you here to share the flat with him? I think it would be good for him to have a flat mate again."

"What state is this?" he asked her instead of answering.

"State?" she gave him an odd look.

Oh no.

He looked out the window, wondering if he could see anything that might help pinpoint where he was. He couldn't.

This place seemed safe from most things, if the wards he sensed were anything to go by. Until he was sure of things, and if this 'John' was who he thought he was, then he would be safe. At least until he found a way back to the Winchesters. And if it was who he thought it was, then he had a couple of places in mind about where he might be.

If he was right about who John might be, if he was the one angel still alive who knew how to safely get into the U.K without being noticed, then he had a pretty sure chance of getting back to the Winchesters without dying.

At least, without dying again.

"Yes," he decided, turning his gaze to meet the gaze of this Mrs. Hudson, "I am here to share the flat with John."

"Oh, how wonderful!" she clapped her hands together, a bit of sadness in her as she announced, "you can have Sherlock's old room. Something about you reminds me of him a little bit, even. Maybe it's your deep voice! Oh, I almost forgot to ask you! What's your name?"

"My name is Castiel."

"Oh, what an odd name," the landlady told him, "well, I'll leave you to get settled in, then! I am so happy that John's found somebody new! He was so sad.."

Mrs. Hudson hurried out the door, and Castiel was left alone.

He sat down in the chair that was facing towards the kitchen. The other one had so much Grace residue he could tell it must be the other angel's seat. He quickly found that he liked these chairs, once he found out how comfortable he could be if he draped his wings over the back behind the chair instead of having them crumpled and ruffled beneath him.

He didn't have to wait too long. Just as the sky finished its descent into night, he heard the creaking of the stairs and footsteps approached the door soon after.

The footsteps did not hesitate outside the door, as he expected they would. Instead, keys were inserted into the lock almost immediately upon the footsteps reaching the door.

The door opened and Castiel found his theories confirmed.

The angel's Grace was so diminished that Castiel probably wouldn't have even known that the person standing in the doorway was an angel if it wasn't for the two, large wings on the person's back, the same color color as the wings of a short eared owl.

The angel froze upon seeing Castiel. The keys fell from his hands, landing with a clatter on the floor.

"Hello, Kalaziel," Castiel greeted, "we need to talk."


	5. Chapter 5

(I don't own Supernatural or Sherlock. Sorry for the short chapter -especially after such a long wait- but the next chapter will be longer, I promise!)

It wasn't often that a Men of Letters agent practically stormed into his office, especially at such a late hour; it certainly got Mycroft's attention. He recognized it as the agent he had talked to last time, the one who may or may have not threatened John's wellbeing.

"Massive influx of energy in London, sir," the agent was breathing heavily, as if he'd rushed all the way here from the main quarters of the Men of Letters, "something big just flashed in and out."

Mycroft sat up straighter, grip tightening on the handle of his umbrella, "explain."

The agent straightened out his rumpled clothing, chest heaving as he painted. It was only a moment before he was pulling a phone from his pocket and holding it out to Mycroft after powering it on and unlocking in.

Mycroft stared at the report before him, barely managing to hide his concern. The reading was practically off the chart. Either something very powerful had stopped by, or a bunch of angels had gathered around... he glanced at the location and froze.

221B Baker Street.

* * *

I stared in shock at my sibling.

Sibling.

I stumbled forward a few steps and he stood up from Sherlock's chair.

"Father has brought me here," he said, "I am not sure why, but he must believe that it is import-"

I practically sprinted the last few steps, throwing myself at my brother. I wrapped both my arms and wings around him, my whole body shaking. I could already feel my face growing wet from the tears rolling down it. Castiel tensed under my arms but he relaxed and hesitantly returned the gesture. For the first time in years I felt another's wings wrap around me.

"I am glad to find that you're okay," he slowly admitted once we had stepped apart, "when Heaven lost all contact with you... Michael wasn't happy."

I sniffed and nodded, wiping quickly at my eyes, embarrassed by my behavior, "right. Did.. did Michael send you? Are you taking me back for reeducation?"

"Michael's in the cage."

"W-what?"

Castiel sighed and sat down in Sherlock's chair; he motioned for me to sit down in my own, "I feel that we may have to do what the humans call.. catching up."

* * *

Castiel was patient.

His story took a while to finish, but eventually he had caught me up on everything I had missed and answered any questions that came up. I felt like he was leaving a couple parts out, like how exactly the Leviathans escaped Purgatory and a couple inconsistencies, but I figured that my brother was an honest angel so I didn't voice my doubts.

Once he was done, I -with quite a bit of urging on Castiel's part- gave up my own tale of the events I had gone through since leaving Heaven.

I trusted my brother. I left nothing out.

We sat in silence for a couple minutes after I finished, the clock ticking onto midnight.

"Sherlock Holmes sounds like he was a good man," Castiel said quietly, pausing for a moment, "I am sorry for your loss."

"The Winchesters sound like good men," I responded.

Castiel nodded.

I cleared my throat, trying to decide my next course of action. Now that we finally had both our stories out of the way, neither of us seemed to sure of what to say to each other. What do you say to someone who doesn't even seem like the person you once knew anymore? He may have looked the same as ever, but I could that he seemed almost (if not on par) as human as I seemed nowadays.

"I need you to get me out of London."

"What?" I looked up, my eyes wide.

"I need to get back as soon as possible," Castiel said calmly, "and you are the only angel still alive with the knowledge of getting past the Men of Letters radar. You're living right in the heart of them, after all."

"W-" my phone chose that exact moment to buzz, "um, hold that thought."

I looked down at the phone, confused to see a message from Mycroft.

 _John_

I frowned and opened it up. Before I could respond to his message my phone buzzed again as he sent another one.

 _Is Kalaziel dead?_

I froze before tapping my fingers quickly across the keys. **Yes.**

 _Are you sure?_

 **Yes.**

 _Are you alone right now?_

My vessel's heart skipped a beat. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath (not that I need to breathe) before trying to decide on what to do.

Oh Father, I'm going to regret this.

But family first right?

I snapped my phone in half and stood up, spreading my wings open.

"You know, brother, it has been too long since I last saw America."

Castiel stared at the wreckage of my phone as I dropped it to the floor, and then his gaze met mine.

"Brother," Castiel stood up, tilting his head and giving me a look of confusion, "you- you don't need to drop everything for me. I would understand-"

I took one last look around the flat, my eyes lingering on the things around me: the violin collecting dust near the window, the skull sitting on the mantel, the bullet holes in the smiley face spray-painted on the wall, the marks and scratches from old experiments etched into the kitchen table, so many reminders of what I once had.

"I'm sure," I said, grabbing my coat, "there's nothing left for me in London."


	6. Chapter 6

(I don't own Supernatural or Sherlock. It was brought to my attention that it may not be clear of the time this takes place in Supernatural. This story takes place right after the season 12 finale -at least by the time Cas makes his appearance-)we can kick it like it's 1916 Portugal the man feel it still

"I want him found!" Mycroft snapped, "I promised my brother that I would keep John Watson safe! And now he could be dead or- or worse!"

Anthea sighed; Mycroft had been raging ever since he realized that John Watson had disappeared. It had startled her, at first, to see the usually so stoic man lose his cool like he had, but after a minute or two she figured she wouldn't want to be the one to have to tell the younger Holmes that John Watson had... she shook her head; no, they would find John Watson. Sherlock would never know that they had lost his precious blogger.

"Where's that- that representative! Get me the Men of Letters agent I spoke with last time!" Mycroft waved his hand dismissively, "that agency is wonderful at finding things.. or people."

Anthea nodded, typing away at her tablet.

Mycroft straightened his suit, calming down at the notion that he was finally back in control of everything. Things would be just fine.

"Sir?" Anthea's voice was full of dread.

"What?"

"The agent has gone MIA."

* * *

It had to be done.

It had to.

Mycroft Holmes was too blinded by sentiment, too blinded by the blogger's importance to Sherlock Holmes, to see beyond the monster's charade. Already it was kicking off the infestation of Britain. In the time since failing his killing of the angel in John Watson, he'd succeeded in taking out three angels under orders. He had known there would be more, would have argued with Mycroft until both were blue in the face if he could have.

He sneered, watching the two angels from afar. No confirmed orders for these ones.

But he had to kill them all the same.

"Where to?" the cabby asked as he got in.

"Just follow that cab," he said casually, pointing it out.

He would wait for his moment. Impatience is what gets people killed.

* * *

Two angels sat in a cab.

It sounded like the start of a bad joke.

I really hope that the Men of Letters offing us wasn't the punchline.

"Was this really the easiest way?" Castiel asked, finally, breaking the silence we had been in since entering the cab, "surely it wouldn't have taken long to fly-"

"Trust me, brother," I told him, "I haven't flown in years. And with how low my Grace is, I may not even have the strength to."

I noticed the cabby shooting us an odd look through the mirror. I gave him an apologetic look and nodded my head towards my brother, spinning my finger next to my head in the universal signal that he was crazy. His dirty look quickly changed and he nodded quickly in understanding.

Castiel didn't seem to understand the meaning behind the excuse I gave, so he wasn't annoyed, "alright. To be honest, none of the angels have flown in a while."

"Because of..." I trailed off, a pain of sadness for the fate of our siblings panging in my chest as sharp as any angel blade.

"Yes."

We delved into silence, watching through the windows as the cabby pulled the cab up to the airport.

"You picking someone up?" the cabby asked as we exited, having noticed that we had no luggage, "I can wait here if you need me."

I waved to Castiel to hold on and then leaned in through the window with a smile and a whisper to the cabby as I paid him, "it's alright. I had to send our luggage ahead because my brother gets uneasy otherwise."

"Ah," he nodded, "I hope you're able to find help for him."

"God willing," I nodded, stepping back. I waited until he had driven away before moving to walk beside my brother.

"What was that about?"

"That was about being careful what you say around certain ears. If anyone questions him, we'll have to hope he doesn't even think of us," I hissed to him, unable to stop myself from casting my surroundings an uneasy stare, "the Men of Letters could have ears anywhere. The very moment you put your guard down, one of them tries to kill you."

I rubbed at my chest, my Grace not strong enough and the bulletwound not yet old enough to have gotten rid of the scar.

"Trust me on that, Castiel. No matter how safe you think you are, you aren't."

He nodded, expression serious, "you thought Sherlock was safe when you went to check on Mrs. Hudson. But he wasn't."

I couldn't swallow down the lump in my throat, "exactly."

Castiel looked around the airport, keeping a lookout while I got us tickets for a flight to the U.S.

The whole time we were in the airport I was whispering the words of the spell I use to remain undetected, saying them as if my life depended on its success. Probably because it did. And not just my life, either.

I didn't stop mumbling the words until we were safely seated in our seats on the plane.

"I didn't know there was such a spell," Castiel told me.

"There were ten angels and one Archangel who knew how to bypass certain wardings," I told him, "we created the spell by combining our Grace and turning the magic into what we needed. It was created because we wanted to sneak a bunch of snow into Michael's room. It was before Lucifer fell. When Heaven... was still a home."

"Gabriel, wasn't it? You were one of the fledglings that used to follow him around all the time."

"He was nice," I shrugged, smiling with nostalgia at my earliest memories, "even when Michael started being mean and turning the angels into soldiers and Raphael did whatever he said, Gabriel was kind to the angels. Until he left. I wanted to be just like him."

"He's dead, now."

"Oh," I looked out the window, counting down the time until the plane took off, "I guess I shouldn't be surprised. I'm guessing the others who used to follow him around all the time are dead too? Why else would you come to me, of all angels, for use of the spell?"

"Not all of our siblings are still with us," Castiel said softly.

"I guess I was like him in the end," I said, bitterly, "alone and a deserter from Heaven. A cowardly runaway. Like Father, like sons."

"Gabriel was different in the end," Castiel told me, "you've done better than he had. He made up for it, I suppose. He stood up to Lucifer and saved the Winchesters."

"Maybe," I said, "but it doesn't change that he left us."

* * *

It has been a long time since I last set foot in America.

I found myself mumbling the spell under my breath, even after we had caught a taxi and had left the airport far behind us after our second flight took us to Kansas. I only stopped when Castiel nudged me with one of his wings in the hope of lending me comfort.

"We made it," he told me, "it's okay, Kalaziel."

I glanced out the window, biting at my power lip, "does it feel like somebody is following us?"

Castiel paused for a moment before answering, "no, I don't believe so."

"Maybe you should check again."

"We are safe, Kalaziel."

"Why did I do this?" I buried my head in my hands, "Mrs. Hudson-"

"Will be fine."

"She'll worry."

"It is too late to go back now."

I grinned at my brother and he grinned back.

"This is crazy," I laughed, "it's like- I feel almost like..."

My grin faded.

"Almost like how I felt with Sherlock, chasing down the bad guys and all that."

Castiel nudged me with his wing again, giving me a comforting smile. It was odd to see an angel making as many expressions as he has since I've been reacquainted with him, "once we reach the Winchesters, you'll feel it again on every case. Being a Winchester.."

My brother went quiet. I returned the wing nudge gesture and he gave me a grateful smile.

"The Winchesters say that family doesn't end in blood. And once they see you as family... I've made a lot of bad decisions, but they still welcome me back, every time."

I gave him a small smile, "I look forward to meeting them."

He smiled back before glancing out the window and then leaning forward and getting the taxi's attention, "drop us off here, please."

"Here?" the taxi driver glanced into his mirror and gave my brother a weird look, "are you sure? There's nothing but trees."

"I'm sure," Castiel said.

"Alright," the man shrugged and Castiel paid him the (quite expensive, thanks to how far we'd traveled from the airport) fee.

We got out and watched the taxi take off.

"Why did you have him stop here?" I asked my brother.

"The way I'm taking can be easy to miss. I, uh, kind of used up the last of what I had, money-wise," Castiel told me, motioning for me to follow him.

I felt a bit bad. I had paid for the tickets into the U.S, but my brother had had to pay for the tickets to Kansas and the taxi fare, since I hadn't had the chance to exchange my pounds for American money.

I followed him down a trail that I most definetly would have missed had I not known it was there and the trail soon dumped us onto a dirt road, where we had to jump a ditch to actually get onto the road. From there, I followed Castiel until we reached the so called 'Bunker,' which didn't look too impressive from the outside.

Once we were at the door, Castiel checked through his pockets.

"You... do have a key, right?" I asked him, hoping we hadn't come all this way to nothing, "I don't want to wait who knows how long-"

"Of course I have a key," he interrupted me before resuming his search.

I let out an exasperated sigh and leaned against the outside of the Bunker.

"...I don't have a key."

I gave him an I-told-you-so look before plucking a secondary from my wing. One snap of my fingers later and I had managed the strenuous -but which used to take no bit of effort at all, when I still had more Grace- task of making the world's best lockpick.

I kneeled down by the door and inserted the end of the feather into the lock as if dipping it into ink.

"How is a feather supposed to help-"

 _Click_

"Gabriel taught me a lot more than how to get past alert wards," I grinned, opening the door, "there's been so many times where this would have come in handy but..." -my grin faded- "...but Sherlock was there. I didn't want him to know about this sort of stuff... I didn't want him to get hurt."

"Thank you... for everything you have done for me. Most other angels would never have done this much for me," Castiel rested his hand on my shoulder for a moment before stepping through the door and into the Bunker. I couldn't help but smile a little at his attempt at getting my mind off of Sherlock.

I shut the door behind me as I stepped inside and then followed my brother farther in. The sight almost took my breath away, for the Bunker looked far more grand on the inside than on the outside.

"This is... amazing."

Castiel smiled, "it is, isn't it?"

He hurried down the steps and into the library, already spreading out his Grace in search of his Hunters. He looked devestated when he found no signs of life within the Bunker.

"T-They must still b-be making their way here," he decided, nearly knocking over a couple chairs when he gave his wings a nervous flap, "yes, that's it. They'll be here soon. Probably stopped to solve a case or something."

He turned his heel.

"Well, I suppose it wouldn't hurt to give you a tour."

* * *

"You didn't tell me the Bunker was this big, Castiel," I teased my brother once the 'tour' was finished, "and the tour of the Winchester's rooms really weren't necessary."

"I had to show you the amount of plaid and flannel they owned," he argued as I sat down at the round table in the library, "you may not have believed me otherwise."

I laughed at that, "you're not wrong. Bloody hell, I didn't know humans could have that much plaid."

"Oh, like the amount of sweaters you had was completely normal?"

I gave him a dirty look, "well, I'm not exactly human."

"Well, it was an inhuman amount. I'm surprised you didn't bring them with you."

I ran my fingers over the _D.W_ and _S.W_ etched into the table, "I almost brought Sherlock's violin. Or maybe his favorite skull."

"Why didn't you?"

I shrugged, "it... it didn't seem right for them to belong to anybody but Sherlock. Angels don't forget -unless you count side affects from Naomi's work- so I have my memories. Having his things would make it... more painful."

Castiel nodded.

I looked up from the table, "and I prefer the term jumpers."

"But they're sweaters."

"Fuck off."

Castiel opened his mouth to respond, but both of us turned our heads towards the entrance to the Bunker as our ears caught the sound of the door opening.

"That must be them," Castiel said, standing up quickly and straightening out his trenchcoat. He shuffled his wings and straightened out his trenchcoat one more time. I stood up and straightened out my jumper, wondering if first impressions were really important with the two Hunters.

I had thought Sherlock was tall, but these men would have towered over him. Well, at least the taller of the two might, but the shorter one might have come close. Which meant they completely towered over me. There was a third with them, who radiated power, and the shorter of the duo made sure to keep him in sight.

They froze when their eyes landed on us, the two larger men instantly raising their guns and pointing them at us. But their fingers were relaxed on the trigger, their gazes focused on me.

"Cas?" the shorter of the duo had a deep voice, but his eyes were red and his voice rasped. He'd been crying, but the sadness in his heart had been replaced by hope.

"Hello, Dean," my brother said.

"You're okay?" Dean asked, but the real words behind his words were clear. Are you really Cas?

"I believe my father brought me back, but he put me in London," my brother looked to me, "without my brother, Kalaziel, I probably wouldn't have managed to make it back so quickly. If at all."

"Uh," I pulled my wings in closer, feeling even more self-conscious when the odd third one with the Winchesters snapped his gaze onto my wings to follow the movement; I gave a small wave, "uh, hi."

"You're an angel?" the tall one asked.

"Unfortunately," I shrugged.

"He's odd," Castiel said quickly, "but Kalaziel's on our side."

"Kalaziel?"

"I prefer the name John, actually. It's... weird, hearing my actual name again after so long," I stuck my hands in my pockets, feeling a bit self-conscious now that I was actually face to face with the Winchesters. I was just hoping they didn't me as a threat; I really didn't want to get on the bad side of the ones who've killed hundreds of monsters and stopped the apocalypse several times. Seriously, these guys had quite the bad guy roster according to my brother.

"John," Dean echoed, staring at Castiel and I.

"John Watson, actually."

The tall one's face lit up and his gun dipped as he lowered it a bit, "wait, John Watson? As in, blogger John Watson? Partner to Sherlock Holmes?"

"Well," I shrugged again, frowning, "not really partner to Sherlock anymore, and I haven't written an entry for my blog in a while, but yeah, I suppose."

I waited for him to say something about Sherlock being a fake, but what was said instead came as a surprise to me.

"Wait, as in 'I Believe in Sherlock Holmes' Sherlock Holmes?" Dean cast the tall one a glance, "really, Sam?"

"Shut up, jerk," Sam huffed back.

"Bitch," Dean responded, clicking the safety on his gun back on. He descended the stairs quickly, pulling Castiel in a hug once he'd reached him.

Sam put his gun away too, once seeing that Castiel was really Castiel. He hurried down the steps, and Castiel seemed surprised when Sam gave him a hug too.

The third person walked down the steps slowly, watching us carefully. He looked nervous, and I took a step towards him, holding out my hand. He didn't seem to have much of a connection to the others, so a part of me was hoping maybe I could have at least one person who can help me get used to all this.

"I'm John," I introduced myself.

He glanced at my wings, then my hand, before nervously following my lead. He grabbed my hand, and I shook it when he didn't do anything else.

"I'm... Jack," he said.

"It's nice to meet you, Jack."

He smiled, then, as if nobody has ever said that they were glad to meet him.

"It's... nice to meet you, too, John."

(Okay, I promised a longer chapter, I delivered a longer chapter.

Now, I have a question for ya'll...

Would you be interested in any pairings? I'll accept the larger majority. If nobody wants pairings, I'm cool with that too. I'm trying to become better at writing by broadening my horizons (this horizon happens to be romance, something I first started exploring in my story 'The Lost Archangel' where I had Destiel and Apriel (Apriel is Apollo/Gabriel and I named it since I am pretty much alone on this little April ship)).

One rule of thumb.

I do not ship or write incest.

That means Wincest is most definetly off the table. Seeing as John is related to Castiel in this story, that is also off the table. Technically John is also related to Jack, so guess that's off too. (Sorry, buddies).

You can ask for more than one pairing too. Destiel and Johnlock is cool (yes, Sherlock will be reappearing in this story) and if you guys want Sabriel I can probably get Gabe back somehow (or if you guys are all like 'naw man, let's see JohnSam or something' okay, cool, whatevs.) Also, since season 13 isn't out at this point, if you're reading this in the future, Jack will most likely be OOC compared to whatever the actual Jack is like. There's no avoiding that. But I apologize for it.)


	7. Chapter 7

(I don't own Supernatural or Sherlock. Okay, so I reviewed the feedback I've gotten so far. As a compromise, Gabriel will be in this story, but Sabriel will be unlikely. For any who may have read my story 'The Lost Archangel,' you might notice a couple Easter eggs. But this is also in a different universe than The Lost Archangel-seeing as Sherlock is a show in that story- where DNFA221B is an AU where Sherlock and Supernatural are in the same universe -and, you know, John is an angel-. To be honest, I'm not really a big fan of writing romance so I'm actually a bit relieved by your feedback.)

 **"Kalaziel!" Gabriel motioned for me to follow, "with me! We have to get them to stop this!"**

 **I swooped through the chaos towards the only thing I was sure of. All around me, my siblings fought each other, killed each other, and my hands ran red with the blood of the ones I couldn't save. This wasn't what I had been made for. Not for this. Not to watch my siblings die before me.**

 **The leader of my garrison had already fallen, despite how much Grace I had poured into him, despite how many bandages I'd wrapped around his wounds, and so my garrison rallied behind me. Together we swooped to Gabriel's aide, clearing the way for him towards where Michael and Lucifer battled.**

 **My sword flashed as I led the way, part of my heart dying along with every single one of my siblings I struck down. I knew them. Every last one of them.**

 **They were my family after all.**

 **And the blood on my hands was something I knew I would never truly wash off.**

...

I woke up dripping from coldsweat, my feathers fluffed up and my face wet with tears, my nose running like a faucet from crying in my sleep. I rolled off the couch, wincing at how cramped my wings were from sleeping on the Bunker's couch. All was quiet throughout the Bunker, so I figured most of the human residents were asleep and the nonhuman residents were... who knows. I ran my hands down my face and forced myself to stop crying.

Once I had finally managed to accomplish that, I cleaned myself up, pulled on a shirt and a jumper, and headed towards the garage Castiel had shown me earlier. It's been a while since I've driven, but I figured I could probably do it.

"Hey."

I jumped, hissing in pain as I slammed my wing into the wall by accident.

Jack stepped out from the shadow of the doorway he had been leaning against. The Winchesters had pulled me aside earlier, and told me of his origins. I could see his father in him, in the way he lit up the room with his smile, like...

Like a morning star.

I shook my head. Lucifer used to be like that, used to be kind.

I used to look up to him.

But now?

"Hello, Jack," I greeted, "you don't sleep?"

"I can," he shrugged, "but somebody was sad. It woke me up."

"My nightmare."

"A memory?" he guessed, and I could see his father in his face again, in the way he gave me that knowing look of concern. I shook the thought away, rubbing at my eyes, trying to shake how much I missed my older brother, even after so long. How I missed all my siblings.

"I'm sorry I woke you up."

He shrugged, "I.. I don't mind. W-where are you going?"

"Out. I suppose."

"Um," he shuffled his feet, and when he spoke his voice was hopeful but resigned, as if he already knew what answer he would recieve, "can I come too?"

I sniffed, scratching absently at an itch on my arm, "I don't see why not. Come on, I'll even let you pick which car I drive. You can ride shotgun."

His face lit up and I could feel his surprise, even with how weak my sense were from my lack of enough Grace, "really?"

"Of course," I said, heading down the hall, "come on, then."

He followed after me quickly, practically bouncing with every step. He looked around with a smile when we entered the garage and I waited patiently while he went around trying to decide.

"How about this one?" he motioned to a black car that held a small resemblance to the Impala that the brothers drove but enough of a difference for it to be clear to any who saw it that it was definitely not a 67' Impala.

I walked closer, walking around it, trying to figure out what it was.

"A 1976 dodge charger," I said, finally recognizing it. I used to have a vessel that knew a pair of American Hunters who drove one, sisters I think they were. What was their last names? Pine? Oak? Something tree related.

Maple. Yes, that was it.

"Can we use this one?"

I nodded and slipped into the driver's seat. He hovered outside the vehicle before getting into the passenger side and buckling in.

It was dark outside, just like I thought it would be. After making sure the entrance into the garage was closed, I set off down the road. Jack messed with the radio, flickering through stations. He glanced out the window when I reached the highway, but turned his attention back to finding a good station shortly after.

"Did you know my dad?"

I glanced over before returning my eyes to the road, "there were a lot of us."

"That wasn't what I asked. Did you know him well?"

I stifled a yawn before answering, "the truth?"

"That would be best."

"Yes."

He paused on a station, then reached over and turned it down.

"Gabriel rarely left his side. I rarely left Gabriel's side. Where Luci went, you could expect to see me and Gabriel close behind."

I felt my eyes watering, my chest heavy from my longing for the past.

"So he knew you?"

"Yes."

"Did he like you?"

"The archangels all loved the angels," I said simply, keeping my eyes on the road, on anything but Jack's face, "the angels all loved the archangels. We were a family. A big family, but a family nonetheless."

"But were you his favorite?"

"Gabriel was his favorite."

Jack let out an angry huff.

I spotted somewhere to stop and pulled off the highway onto a side road before turning into a McDonalds. I pulled into a parking spot, thanked whoever had decided that having a McDonaalds open at three in the morning was a good idea, and turned off the Charger. I didn't get out I because Jack chose that moment to speak back up.

"Kalaziel-"

"John."

"John..." Jack paused, before continuing, "what was he like?"

"John?"

"My father."

"Oh," I got out of the Charger and Jack followed my lead. After making sure it was locked, I walked into the McDonalds and paused a little ways before the counter to look over the choices.

"Have you ever been in one of these before?" Jack asked me.

I raised an eyebrow at him, "I've had American vessels, Jack."

His face flushed, "oh. I just figured.."

"What? Because I kept the British accent instead of the American?"

"Well, yes."

I turned my attention back to the screen, a small smile on my face, keeping my voice low so that it wouldn't carry to unwelcome ears, "angels don't have accents, Jack. We all come from the same place. But my actual voice would... have devastating effects here. I'm talking glass breaking, mortals bleeding from the ears devastating. I use my vessel's voice. My vessel happens to be British."

"I... guess that makes sense?"

I nodded and then met his gaze, "do you want anything? An ice cream cone maybe? I don't care. I can't taste anything but molecules, but I still need to eat and drink because I don't have enough Grace to sustain my vessel myself."

"An ice cream cone sounds okay... what's an ice cream cone?"

I laughed and ruffled his hair with my hand before approaching the counter. A couple minutes later found us seated at a table, Jack seeming quite happy with ice cream and I with a small cup of hot tea. My tea-drinking is more of a habit than anything else, so if it tasted better or worse than what I was used to, I couldn't tell. Angels can't really taste. With how he was scarfing down that ice cream, I figured Jack had gotten lucky and inherited taste buds from his mortal side.

I took a small sip of my tea before putting it down on the table, "the angels used to joke that, where Luci was, Gabriel and Kalaziel were sure to be there too. When the Mark turned Luci evil, when he grew jealous of humanity, and Michael was forced to lock Lucifer away..."

Jack looked up at me, surprised that I was actually telling him.

"I don't know who was more surprised when Gabriel and I didn't side with Lucifer," I said, staring at my tea like it held the answers to everything that was wrong with my life, "it certainly threw Michael and Lucifer for a loop. Even so, after it was all over and Michael had locked Luci away, everyone kept a close eye on Gabriel and the angels that followed him. I was one of those angels."

"Gabriel was one of the archangels, right?"

I nodded, "even now, I don't know why he abandoned us, but Gabriel ran away. Maybe he couldn't take Michael turning Heaven into an army anymore, maybe he just couldn't deal, who knows. He told nobody. Not even me. One day he was just... gone. Michael freaked out."

I had to stop, the memory too painful for me to continue.

I felt a hand on mine and looked up. Jack was frowning, concerned, and the comparison my mind found between his expression and the old pre-Mark Lucifer made me want to cry.

"My garrison were the first of the angels sent to Naomi. Her practice group, if you will. Only a handful of my garrison survived, and only because we weren't the first ones practiced on."

My grip tightened on my cup.

"Michael said it was because of how close we had been to Luci. With Gabriel gone, there was nobody to protect the garrison that had been closest to Luci, since the angels that followed Luci had either sided with him or were taken down so they weren't an option. I cannot tell you what Lucifer used to be like, for I cannot remember. I have glimpses, sometimes, snippets of memory desperately holding on. I know and yet I don't remember. Naomi had not yet perfected her work when she first worked on my garrison and I."

Jack tapped his fingers against the table in thought, "who was Naomi?"

Somehow it hadn't occurred to me how young Jack really was. I took another sip of my tea before signing and putting down the cup, "I'll answer any questions you have as best I can."

* * *

Jack was silent as I pulled out of the McDonalds. The sun was high in the sky by this point, but I hoped I had at least managed to give him the answers he needed.

He didn't mess with the radio this time. We rode in silence.

"Am I going to turn out like my father?"

I took a deep breath and let it out, choosing my words carefully.

"Jack," I said, "I go by the name John Watson. But it isn't a name. Because I'm not good enough to own it."

Jack looked up at me, confused.

"The real John Watson had a terrible father. His father drank, and was abusive, and was an over-all horrible, horrible person."

"Why are you telling me this?" Jack interrupted.

"Because John Watson's father was not a good man. But John, John didn't let that stop him from being good."

Jack sat back in his seat.

"He went on to become an army doctor," I told him, "and he was good at it, too. John saved a lot of lives. He gave up his life for somebody else, in the end."

I pulled onto the highway. After I'd merged onto the highway, I started talking again.

"John Watson was a good man-" -I shook my head- "-no, he was a great man."

I took a deep breath, the echo of gunshots echoing in my head. I shook the memories away.

"What I'm trying to tell you, Jack, is that you don't have to be like your father. You can be whoever you want to be. It's all up to you. And I know you have it in you to be good, to be great."

Jack was quiet for a moment before speaking up, "why do you go by John Watson then, if you don't think you're good enough to use his name?"

"I go by his name so that I won't forget him. So that I can remember him. So I can best honor what he gave up. And yet at the same time..."

I sighed, trying to find the right words to explain.

"At the same time, I know I'll never be as great as John Watson. But you.."

I looked over at Jack.

"Kid, you have the potential to be even greater."


	8. Chapter 8

(I don't own Sherlock or Supernatural.)

Slim hands shuffled through papers.

Six months.

No word. No sign.

Nothing.

"We need to tell Sherlock."

"No," Mycroft rasped out the word, "just keep looking."

"Sir-"

"He's alive," the eldest Holmes said, "he has to be."

He ignored the pity in Anthea's eyes. She didn't believe him.

"He needs to be," Mycroft said.

"Maybe... maybe Sherlock-"

"No," Mycroft shook his head, "Anthea, my brother would never forgive me. He is not to know."

Deft fingers tapped against a tablet, "I'll send out more men, sir."

"Thank you."

* * *

"And so, see, she's in love with an orderly," Dean flipped a burger higher than necessary but caught it all the same, "but that's, like, taboo in the hospital. But, Dr. Sexy, he knows the two are in love, so- are you even listening?"

"Mm-hmm," I hummed, my fingers flying across the keys of the laptop they'd gotten for me last month since I kept borrowing Sam's.

"Okay, so-"

"Are you making burgers?"

"And ranting about how Josh and Nora are his OTP," I told the younger Winchester who had entered the kitchen.

"Not for Dr. Sexy," Dean corrected, pointing his spatula at me with a pointed look, "they're my OTP for this other show, but the two had a crossover episode."

"Right," I nodded, not even looking up from my laptop.

"Oh, John," Sam sat down next to me at the island, "me and Dean were heading out on a hunt later. Wanna come?"

I glanced up for this, eyes widened in surprise, "I usually stay to watch after Jack."

It was a tempting idea. Other than the occasional trip to the nearest Walmart to keep the Bunker supplied, I've been cooped up in the Bunker ever since getting here six months ago. With Sam and Dean often out on Hunts with my brother, I was usually always watching Jack. Dean and I had gotten off to a bit of a rocky start during the first week, since I was firmly on the 'Don't-Kill-Jack' train with Sam and Cas, but after getting to know each other we got along alright. Even so, I was usually stuck at the Bunker.

"He's not a kid, he can watch after himself," Sam shrugged, "besides, he can come too."

"What?" Dean almost dropped a burger, "whoa, Sammy, that wasn't one of the things we agreed on-"

"We think it might be good for you to get out of the Bunker for once," Sam said, giving me his infamous puppy eyes.

I looked back to my computer, "I get out and about. Just yesterday I went and got groceries."

Sam sighed before grabbing my laptop despite my protest. He opened up my history and turned the screen towards me. I glanced at a couple of the first things listed on it.

 **Moriarty**

 **Jim Moriarty**

 **Moriarty actor**

 **Sherlock Holmes and Moriarty**

I gave him a dirty look, "no cover is perfect. There has to be a slip-up somewhere. I'll find it."

"John, you need to let this go. Every time I see you, you're trying to prove Sherlock innocent. I get it, really, but even you need to take a break once and awhile."

"I'm an angel. I have forever," I said, taking my laptop back, "but every second Sherlock spends with everybody thinking he's a fraud, every single second..."

"Maybe if you take a break, look at it with a fresh eye when you get back," Sam shrugged, "you can't just focus on revenge. John, I've been down that road before. It leads to nowhere but trouble."

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. The memory of Sherlock's limp, broken body stained the back of my eyelids.

"I can't let this go, Sam."

I resumed my search with renewed vigor.

"You'll have to go without me."

The kitchen was silent for a long time until there was a thunk beside me. I looked up at Sam in confusion as he opened up his laptop and opened up a new tab.

Sam gave me a small smile, "you're a member of Team Free Will, now, John. You don't have to do this alone."

Dean let out a snort and flipped another burger patty, "nerds."

"Dude, shut up," Sam cast his brother his signature bitch face.

Dean stuck his tongue out at his brother.

I smiled, my chest feeling lighter than it has since Sherlock died, "thanks, Sam."

He smiled back, "anytime."

* * *

-2 months later, 8 months after John left Britain-

 **So Get This**

Greg Lestrade stared at the email.

It didn't make sense.

Who the hell would send him an email with 'So Get This' as the subject?

Rolling his eyes, he opened it anyways. His eyes skimmed through the contents, froze, and jumped back to read through it again.

He nearly fell out of his chair, already leaping for his phone.

"Hello?"

"I have proof that Sherlock is innocent."

* * *

"I don't understand the point of this," Castiel said, frowning, an angry eye squint already in place. After spending eight months around him, I'd discovered that his reaction to mostly everything was an eye squint. Should he be angry, then the recipient received an angry eye squint.

"The point," Dean said, patting Castiel's shoulder, "is that John's friend can now rest easy in his grave."

"And Moriarty's rolling in his!" I cheered, raising my shot up in the air, "to Sherlock bloody Holmes!"

Sam and Dean echoed my cheer, raising their glasses in the air.

Castiel seemed unimpressed as we downed our shots, "Kalaziel, you'd have to drink hundreds of those to get drunk."

"Shut up and drink," I told him.

A couple hours later, when everyone had retreated into their rooms for the night, I left the safety of the Bunker and stood beneath the stars, holding two shot glasses and a bottle of the strongest drink the Winchesters had.

I stared up at the stars for a long moment before sitting down in the middle of the dirt road. I put one shot glass in front of me and the other across from me, and used the bottle to fill them up.

I stared at them for a moment before placing the bottle down beside me and picking up my shot glass.

"This one's for you, Sherlock," I said, leaning forward and clinking my glass against the one I had placed on the ground across from me, "now everybody knows that you weren't a fake."

I downed the glass and set it down. Not for the first time, I wondered what Sherlock's Heaven was like.

I wondered if I was in any of his happiest memories.

After a long moment I reached forward and downed Sherlock's glass too.

He wasn't exactly here to drink it. Or say anything about me drinking it.

And if the bottle that had been full when I went outside was empty by the time I went back inside, well, Sherlock wasn't here to say anything about that either.

* * *

Eight months.

Eight fucking months.

He collapsed onto the motel bed, staring at the ceiling. After a long moment, he sighed and ran his hand down his face.

"What am I doing?" he whispered into the dark.

He knew it was too late to turn back. The Men of Letters would never take back somebody who had gone MIA, especially after having been MIA for eight months. Eight months and he was still waiting for the opportunity he needed to take the angels out.

He turned onto his side, staring at the dark shape of the unlighted lamp on the motel bedstand.

With a sigh, he sat up and turned on the lamp, alighting the room in a soft glow. When his eyes fell upon his bag, settled next to the bed, he reached over and dragged it closer. Reaching into it, he pulled out the small teddy bear that had been nestled safely within.

He ran his fingers over the faded ribbon around its neck and stared into its marble eyes.

He could remember her face when he looked at it. He could remember how much his little sister had adored the damn thing.

Choking back tears, he clutched the thing to his chest and let out a silent cry of grief. He was reminded of his purpose now.

"It's okay, Annie," he promised, "I won't let them hurt anybody else."

He'd waited this long for the right time to strike. He could wait a little longer.

He could wait.


	9. Chapter 9

It was almost fitting. All this time trying my best not to get caught by angels and now here I was, caught but not even caught by the angels of my own world.

Of all the ways I had expected to see Naomi again, strapped down on a table with

I could remember… a blast? Something had happened. Had Jack done something? No.

I remembered stepping into the Bunker. Time had passed since then, I could feel it. But I could not for the life of me remember what it was. A dodgy situation if ever I had seen one.

What was going on? What had happened?

"I was hoping being an alternate version would have made this easier," Naomi tossed down what must have been a tool in her hand and I heard it clatter against metal. "But no! This Kalaziel seems even more stubborn than ours had been!"

Other Kalaziel? What-

Naomi was leaning over me, staring at me with a familiar irritated expression. Or was it familiar?

"Kalaziel," Naomi greeted me curtly. "Other Kalaziel, at least. How far back this time?"

"Not sure how long I've been here. Not even sure how I got here. Congratulations on making some progress. How far back are you trying to go?"

"A century, at least."

"Is that truly necessary?" I said, staring her down and deciding to do my best not to seem too confused. "I've been a pain in the ass for longer than that, certainly? Or was your Kalaziel a good little angel?"

"Just as infuriating as you, I'm afraid," she said. "Now if you would cooperate, brother, this could be a lot easier and done a lot faster."

"Never works for long," I said. "Take what you like. Rebelling is as much as part of me as my wings."

Naomi only rolled her eyes and resumed her work, the sound of her drill ringing sharp against my ears.

"-ohn! -o-n!"

Somebody was undoing the celestiel shackles keeping me down. I caught a glimpse of wings and tried to shove the angel away, only for a strong grip to close around my wrist.

"Kalaziel!"

"J'ck?" My words came out in a slur, my mind still fuzzy. Had Naomi finished the job, or had she been interrupted? But no, walking back into the Bunker, Sherlock's name cleared, was the last I could remember other than waking up under Namoi's drill.

Wasn't the first time I've blinked and found myself on her table. If I was lucky, it would be the last.

"Yeah," Jack said. "Yeah, it's- it's me. It's me. We're getting you out of here, John."

"Wings… you've got wings…"

"Yeah, you- you were there when they were growing out. Don't.. don't you remember?"

"They wipe them," an unfamiliar voice said. "In the beginning, there were some who tried to help. Like.. well, our Kalaziel was one of them. The rest of the angels took him and any other who sided with us. Kalaziel kept… well, they figured he wasn't worth the trouble anymore."

Arms that were not Jack's pulled me off of the table and onto my feet. The man slipped my arm over his neck when my feet proved unwilling to fully support me.

"The name's Bobby," the man said, a couple other humans with him and Jack, all on high alert as we started towards the door in what appeared to be an old, run-down small church.

"Kalaziel," I said. "But I prefer John."

I felt a bolt of sad remembrance radiate from everyone but Jack and a blonde woman who seemed familiar yet unkown all at once.

"John was the poor sod you took over, right?" Bobby said, though he didn't sound too irritated.

"Not my choice," I said.

"Do you remember me?"

I looked at the woman who had spoken, taking in her short blonde hair and familiar facial structure. "I should, shouldn't I? I'm sorry, ma'am, but I don't."

Her face fell before she changed her expression to one of sheer determination. "Maybe- maybe it will come back to you. Until then, well, I'm Mary. Mary Winchester."

"A pleasure, Mary."

A small smile pulled at her mouth. "Right back at you, John."

Nobody relaxed even when we reached the vehicles, and even then nobody relaxed until they'd hightailed it back to what must be their camp. It was smaller than I had expected, but we'd barely been there for a moment before Bobby was leading me off.

"Might be best for those two if you give them some time," Bobby said. "They felt terrible when you were unable to escape with them, and knowing that you're lacking some memories up in that noggin probably won't help either."

"Where are they staying?"

"In one of the buildings, but…" Bobby trailed off for a moment, as if second-guessing himself. Finally, after a silent moment, he spoke again. "I think I've got somewhere you'd like better. Hopefully, the arrangement should be mutually beneficial. And lessen the amount of bullets wasted on our damn walls."

Bobby led me to a building set a little ways apart from the rest. There were, indeed, a couple bullet holes in the walls.

"When the world was first turning to shit, it started in America, and so he came on down to check things out. World got screwed over too quickly for him to get back. He's a Brit, like you- well, like the poor sod you're possessing." Bobby opened the door to the small hut he had led us to.

"Once again, not my choice," I said, stepping first into the dark hut. "I was perfectly fine in the backseat until we got shot, thank you very much."

Something clattered. The tall figure ahead of us, standing at a cluttered table at the other end of the small hut, had dropped what he had been holding but didn't even move to pick it up.

"You want to speak strategy, he's usually here. We wouldn't have it any other way," Bobby said. "He'll get a kick out of you. He's like that. And, well, something tells me you'll be good for each other.

The man spun around, sharp eyes burning into me. Through me. A gaze so electric and so shocking that I could swear that I felt my heart stop for a moment before kicking into a racing pounding in my chest.

"Sherlock," I said, his name soft on my tongue.

"John."

I almost took a step forward before reality caught up with me. Sherlock, but not my Sherlock. I tried to say something, anything, but nothing came out.

He stared at me for a long moment, that familiar curious scrutiny that I knew so well. His shoulders seemed to slump, barely noticeable, but neither of us looked away.

"An angel," Sherlock said. "You carry yourself in the way the angels do, to balance out your wings, but you lack the same smug superiority most of them give off. Body language like an angel who has spent a good majority of time passing for human but does not see them as inferior. Kalaziel."

Hearing my real name spoken in his voice sent a shock through me. I didn't let it show.

His face softened, mouth tipping into a frown. "But not my Kalaziel. Not my Kalaziel John Watson."

"And you're not my Sherlock," I said. "My Sherlock Holmes never knew of angels."

For a long moment, we just stared at each other, taking each other in.

Sherlock and I each took a single step forwards simultaneously. And then our bodies were lurching forward, grabbing each other, crushing each other, clinging to each other.

Sherlock was shaking, and I could feel my shirt growing moist where he was pressing his face into the crook of my neck, silent tears hot against my neck. I clung to him as if this Sherlock, too, would fall if I let go. He held me just as tightly.

It took me a moment to realize that I, too, was crying, and probably getting his shirt as wet with tears as he was doing to mine.

Behind us, Bobby retreated, shutting the door with a silent click.

I had not forgotten how brilliant of a man Sherlock Holmes was, but I was glad to be reminded nontheless. If not for the image of Sherlock's limp form forever flashing before me when I closed my eyes and the way we'd both catch either staring at each other from time to time, remembering our originals long since gone, and the warzone that was this world, I could almost pretend that he was the same Sherlock I had known.

But he wasn't my Sherlock. I wasn't his John.

We pretended anyways, neither willing to accept that truth.

His little hut wasn't 221B Baker Street. His violin was scratched all over and had been obviously mended hundreds of times. Mrs. Hudson wasn't around. There were no cases.

But there were body parts in the freezer (even if this one was hooked up to the generator). Experiments littering his tables. Violin music at odd hours. A brilliant mortal to follow to whatever caught his eye.

It was different. It was similar.

I wouldn't have left even if I could.

I wasn't sure what song Sherlock was playing on his violin at the moment, but I could hear the footsteps and coughs of those lingering outside the walls to listen, and I noticed when he stopped.

"What happened to him?"

"Hmm?" I looked up. Sherlock was staring out the dirt stained window, bow still resting against the strings of his violin but not moving.

"Your Sherlock."

I turned my gaze back to the tattered book in my hands.

"Moriarty," I said, voice nearly a whisper. "What happened to your John?"

"Michael."

I turned back to my book. Sherlock took up his bow and resumed his melancholy music. He was looking away from the window now, as if he could no longer stomach the view it offered to him. I could feel his attention on me, as it often was.

Sherlock stared at me a lot, as if I might disappear if he looked away for too long. I wondered if he knew that I did the same towards him. Knowing Sherlock, he probably did.

This was just another thing we needn't address.

(Even though I did it to make the beginning of this chapter to make more sense (as it's from John's pov and I like to experiment in an attempt to become a better writer) I still feel a wee bit bad. So, uh, sorry. Also, sorry about how long this took, and for any of my other stories that haven't been updated that any of you might be reading. I have really severe anxiety and I go through periods of emotional numbness, and the things that once brought me joy (writing, in this case) just stop mattering. And so does everything else. And I just kinda exist. Thankfully, I think this emotional numbness period is coming to an end, and I hope to be able to start working back to the writer I was before. Next chapter should be longer.)


	10. Chapter 10

(Recap: John got semi-Reeducated and met ApocalypseWorld!Sherlock

Oh my gosh! Sorry about how long it's been! Still getting used to having two jobs and the usual hecticness of life, so haven't had much writing time. It's why all the updates for everything have been slugged -_-'

Anyways, don't own Sherlock or Supernatural, enjoy the chapter!)

Sherlock was in the middle of playing 'hall of the mountain king' when the door to our hut slammed open. I was on my feet in an instant, summoning forth my angel blade. Sherlock didn't even cock-up on a note.

The man in the doorway seemed to block the whole doorway, a mass of golden feathers filling it. He moved inside, pulling those glorious wings closer. He was a mess, but his eyes locked onto me, wings smoothing with relief. "Kalaziel."

He was pulling me into a hug before I could even comprehend that I wasn't seeing things.

"Gabriel?"

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, buddy, it's me."

He pulled back, looking me over with that wild grin. He didn't seem to glow as bright as he had when I had last seen him.

Sherlock dragged the song off with a shrill screech. He lowered it, casting that deducting expression as he turned to look my brother over.

"Another dead man, I assume," Sherlock said. "More people from John's world. How many?"

"What?" Gabriel asked. "Who's this, Kal?"

"Sherlock Holmes-" I paused and shook my head, shaking off my brother's loose grip- "I'm sorry, wait just a mo. You're dead. You're supposed to be dead."

"Faked it. Look, I'll explain, just.. just not yet," Gabe said. "There's, uh, there's a couple. Dean-"

"And Sam? Sam and Dean are here?" I said, feeling my heart lighten for the first time since meeting this world's Sherlock.

"Well, kinda. I wanted to see you before he-" Gabe spat the word 'he' as if it tasted bad on his tongue- "realized you-"

"If it isn't my favorite angel!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the newcomer strolling into the room like he owned it. With a grumbled 'must the divine always be so dramatic?' Sherlock turned back to the window and lifted his violin once more, screeching out the scratchy racket he'd usually reserved for chasing Mycroft out of our flat back in London.

Gabriel pulled a rather impressive bitch face at the pink feathered angel that pulled me from him and squished me in his arms. Beside the familiar archangel, Jack was practically bouncing. I was not as excited at this reunion.

Purposely ignoring Jack's hopeful expression, I smacked Lucifer with a wing, hard, the feathers all puffed up. It seemed to take him by surprise and from the corner of my eye I saw Jack's hopeful smile fade away into a disappointed sigh. How dare that boy turn those eyes on me! Made me feel as if

"What the HELL is going on!?" I said, retreating away from both archangels. "What sort of wonky shite is fuckin goin on!?"

"Please, John, at least try to seem as if you know your onions," Sherlock said. "Gabriel has come through with Sam and Dean, most likely the three hoping to find Jack, Mary, and you. He wouldn't have come alone, he doesn't appear the type to take such a risk. Sam and Dean will, of course, have been trying to reach Jack, Mary, and you. Considering the bad blood between Lucifer and the others who came through, then it is highly unlikely that Lucifer coming with was a planned event."

Sherlock turned to face us, bow motionless against the strings of his precious violin.

"I will put up with you only for as long as John is willing to put up with you two," Sherlock said. "Be sure that you do not overstay your welcome in our flat."

"Hut," I corrected for Sherlock. "It's a- it's more of a hut, now, really."

"Dull," Sherlock said, resuming his violin's screeching as he turned back around. "Your company already bores me, John. Are you done putting up with them yet?"

"You two have a lot of explaining to do," I said, ignoring the detective. "Because- because- bloody hell."

Lucifer nodded quickly, ignoring Gabriel's glare. "I would expect nothing less from my favorite brother!"

"Favorite-?"

"Of course!"

I sighed and sat down in my chair, rubbing the bridge of my nose. I couldn't get headaches but I felt pretty bloody close to one.

"You might want to stand," Sherlock told our guests."I mixed demon blood and holy oil to see what would happen but I spilled it on the couch. Might have a nasty result when exposed to the skin of an archangel."

A lie, of course. Sherlock knew full well that people who stood left far more quickly than those who sat. Besides, it had been only his bottle of mixed demon/human blood that he had accidentally spilled on the couch. Holy oil was far too precious for the group to allow Sherlock more than a set supply and he was painfully careful with what he did have of the stuff.

"I've turned a new leaf!" Lucifer declared. I felt his wings brush against mine as he walked a circle around me only to stop before me. "I saved Sam's life to prove my new strive for the good side! You're welcome."

"He's just manipulating Jack," Gabe said, putting a wing between Lucifer and I. "And now he's trying to manipulate you."

"Obvious," Sherlock grumbled from the window. "Not lying, but not the whole truth. Hoping to manipulate Jack, so obvious it's almost sad. Saved Sam only to get on the nephilim's good side. Pity."

Lucifer sent a quick glare Sherlock's way, fast enough that he probably hoped I wouldn't notice -I did- and his Grace flared.

Sherlock pulled a long screeching note followed by an attack against sensitive angel hearing. Lucifer's Grace flared as he winced at the sudden noise.

"Try to shut me up again and I will trap you in a circle of holy fire and leave you to rot," Sherlock said, voice emotionless. He pulled one more harsh note on his violin before slipping into the Johnny instrumental of 'The Devil Went Down To Georgia.'

"You tried to shut Sherlock up?" I said, peering through Gabe's golden feathers to glare at Lucifer.

"Only so that I can get my words out without them being wrongly interpreted! I know that I've done some things in the past that I'm not proud of. I understand if you don't trust me, but know that I only want to be able to be the best father possible for my son and, if I can, the best possible brother to you. So what do you say? Can't we be a happy family again?"

"You're one of Jack's favorite angels," Sherlock said, sounding bored. "Castiel is the other, but has already proven unwilling to trust him. Rightly so. Convincing you would further trick the child into placing misplaced loyalty onto his father."

I let out a sigh, rubbing my nose again. I was lucky I was still angel enough not to have my stress turn into a pounding migraine. "Look… can- can I just have a moment to think this all over? It's just- it's a lot going on at the moment."

"Anything you need," Lucifer said. "Come on, Jack. I'm sure Kalaziel will understand that I really do just want the best for everyone! He always was a smart angel."

Jack seemed to deflate, a look of worry creasing lines into his face as he looked at me before turning and trailing after his father. Whether he would give any of our words a sparing thought or simply worried nobody would be willing to give his father the second chance he was pretending to deserve, I knew not.

"Please tell me you're not honestly falling for that shit act," Gabriel said. "The one truthful shit that came out of his mouth is that you are a smart angel, Kalaziel. You're not falling for his bullshit. You can't be."

"Of course not," Sherlock said.

"Sherlock, leave me to my own judgement, please?"

Sherlock grumbled again. With Lucifer gone, Sherlock transitioned his music into softer notes.

"I'm not stupid. Of course I know that he's up to something," I said. "But… I'm in the best position to figure out what he's doing, aren't I? Let's say I pretend to believe him. Lucifer's smart, he'll make excuses to keep Jack believing in him. I'm better off not driving Jack away."

"True," Sherlock said.

Gabriel, on the other hand, looked as if he had swallowed several lemons (that is a human saying, and unfortunately I cannot personally understand why eating lemons would contort a human's face), but then his trickster mindset must have set in as the bitter expression transitioned into one of careful contemplation.

"You'll betray him eventually, of course. I hope it hurts him. I hope it breaks whatever rotten heart he has left," Gabriel said. "My darling Kalaziel, you never cease to disappoint."

Gabriel had practically delivered this conversation to me on a silver platter.

"You, on the other hand, have proven to be greatly disappointing," I said. "You- you left me! Us! You left us! A whole garrison of angels who adored you, and you abandoned us!"

Gabriel didn't say anything, just let his smile fade into the tight lipped expression of seriousness. It had never been a usual expression for him.

"They experimented on us, Gabriel," I said. "You left us and they took everything out on us. And then I hear, only a couple of years ago, that you were dead. And now here you are. Here you are."

Gabriel looked surprised at this information. "Experimented?"

"You think Naomi started out knowing how best to re-educate an angel?" I asked. "Most of us died. If I had been one of the first few experimented on, I wouldn't even be here."

"Kalaziel-" he lowered me into my chair, hand on my shoulder- "I'm not going to say that what I did, leaving you all, was right. If I could, I would have taken you, but I barely got out unnoticed myself. Besides, we both know you wouldn't have agreed to come."

"You're right," I said. "I could never have left those angels, the very ones who loved and trusted you just as much as I, behind to Michael's mercy. Especially when I knew that Michael no longer had such a thing as mercy."

"And I could," Gabriel admitted. He sat down in Sherlock's chair, earning a screeching note of disdain from the violin of the very man now casting the archangel a sharp sneer.

"I went into hiding," Gabriel said. "Found this vessel and got a pagan named Loki to lend me the favor of masquerading as him many centuries ago. That very pagan took me in after faking my death to Lucifer, then turned and betrayed me by handing me over to Asmodeus. I've been kept captive in hell, mouth sewn shut and Grace being leeched, for years."

"Grace that you don't have much of, at the moment," Sherlock said. "So get out of my chair."

Gabriel shot my friend a dirty look.

"Even at full strength, an archangel still feels angel blade bullets. I'd reckon it would hurt."

Gabriel sighed, but got out of Sherlock's chair.

"I was a coward, Kalaziel," Gabriel said. "I ran away. I've been running away. But I'm done running away. Done. I may be weaker than the other archangels at the moment, but if things come to blows, I'm not running. Not any more."

"Promise."

"I promise."

After that, Gabriel and I spared a few hours for idle chatter before I excused myself with the excuse of going to greet the Winchesters. I ignored the betrayed expression on Sherlock's face as I left him in the company of my older brother.

I wanted to greet the Winchesters and I did. It was as awkward as I expected it would be, with the memories Naomi had taken hanging heavy between us. Within only a couple minutes, I excused myself back to what Sherlock and I had taken to calling 221B 2.0. Gabriel had left by then and Sherlock was by his window coaxing a tune I did not know from his violin.

Sherlock was quick to chase visitors away anyways, that brilliant man shooing anyone who came to the door with an unforgiving deduction and a slam of the door. Unfortunately, Lucifer proved to be not as easy to chase away. Barely a handful of hours had passed before he came barreling back in.

"Kalaziel-" would it kill people to call me John?- "I was wondering if you would like to, what was the word?"

"Hang out," Jack said.

"Yes. Would you like to hang out with my son and I? Maybe play some catch? Tag? Hide and seek? I bet Gabriel would be great at that last one."

"We're actually busy-" I began to say, only for Sherlock to interrupt in familiar Sherlock fashion.

"Splendid," Sherlock said. "You get an hour before I require John's assistance for.. for something much more important. Leave the boy."

Lucifer's face made a funny expression. I wasn't sure if he was more baffled at the absolute zero fucks that Sherlock gave or more irritated.

"You'll smother him, the way you're hanging over him. That always makes children hate their parents in the end-" Sherlock continued as he looked up from his table of experiments and let his pale eyed gaze pierce into Lucifer- "I'm doing you a favor, really. You should thank me. You won't, of course. I doubt that you have ever thanked anyone for anything. In any case, I'm sure you and John will have conversations considering things you'd rather not reach Jack's ears, hmm?"

Sherlock's gaze moved to mine and he lifted a single smooth eyebrow before turning back to the demon flesh he was experimenting on.

"Think of it is free babysitting," I said. "Jack can learn about..."

"Chemistry," Sherlock offered.

"Chemistry, yes. Always useful," I said. "Sherlock will probably forget everything other than his experiments, but at least Jack might get to learn something. Shall we?"

Lucifer frowned and looked at the three other occupants within the room.

Jack seemed excited by the opportunity, nearly bouncing in place as he looked towards Sherlock. "I'm okay with staying with Sherlock."

Lucifer bit his lip, mouth twisting side to side for a long moment before clapping his hands against his legs and turning his side towards the door. "Alright! Sounds great! Hour it is."

I stood from my chair and walked with him out, only looking back when I turned to shut the door.

"I've heard a lot about you-" I heard Jack say- "well, other you. John talked about you all the time!"

Sherlock's gaze met mine as he glanced over his shoulder, the corner of his mouth twitching up into the slightest of amused smirks before he was turning his focus back onto his experiments and the nephilim. "Did he now?"

The door shut with a click.

"Father knows Sherlock's probably going to have plenty of blackmail on me if Jack continues on blabbing about my conversation habits," I said, smiling as I turned towards the archangel beside me. "Here's hoping he doesn't mention that I taste molecules instead of taste or I'd never hear the end of it."

"How so?"

I shivered, imagining all the things Sherlock might try to get me to eat.

"He'd probably try to turn me into a mobile chemistry set of some sort," I said. "So where are we headed, then?"

Lucifer motioned forwards.

"We can patrol the perimeter. Kill two birds with one stone and all that. Protecting the humans is a priority, isn't it?"

I nodded, keeping my body language (of both of human and angel variety) as friendly as I could. I followed after him, to his side but a couple steps behind to appeal to his need to be in control and to feel in power. It seemed to work, his wings relaxing. He even stretched out the ones nearest me to wrap around me not unlike a human might stretch out an arm around a friend's shoulders.

"You've grown up," Lucifer told me. "You were little older than a fledgling last I saw you."

"Old enough to fight," I said. "My true form has a couple scars, mostly from the war or Naomi. The years were not kind, brother."

"You needn't worry anymore. I'm here. I can look after you again, little brother. Keep you safe."

It was a pretty lie. I wished that I was as naive as he probably believed I was, just so that I could believe and could hope, even for a little while; the world would be warmer if I could afford to hope for such a possibility.

"Will you come back to Heaven with us?"

"Sure!" Lucifer said. "If you want. You and I and Jack, we can all head up. A family."

"Family," I said. "It sounds nice."

"Doesn't it?"

"Could I bring Sherlock, do you think? If we left."

The wings wrapped around me tensed.

"Well… I don't see why not," Lucifer said. "He really means a lot to you, huh?"

"Luci… have you ever… have ever killed a human?"

He looked at me from the corner of his eye, Grace radiating a note of warning. The feathers on the hot pink wings fluffed up just the slightest bit.

"Why do you ask?"

I looked away, towards the ground. I let my wings droop, hoping to pull all the right strings.

"Because I have," I said quietly. "And I.. I don't even regret it. I.. I think I may have even liked it. Does that make me a bad angel, Luci?"

Half-truths always make the best lies. I killed that cabbie and I don't regret it. I didn't like it, but I would kill a thousand humans for the few I cared about. Maybe that made me a bad angel, but I had to be far from the worst.

All the tension disappeared from my brother. His smile was warmer and he wrapped his Grace around mine. A hug. A comfort. Affection between siblings I'd only gotten from Castiel and Gabriel recently.

"No!" He beamed at me, sounding absolutely chipper. "No, of course not!"

He steered us farther away from where the humans where.

"Was there a specific reason why?"

"He was going to kill Sherlock," I admitted. "So I killed him first. And I liked it. And before that, my vessel was a soldier. He fought and he killed… and I liked that, too."

"Oh, Kalaziel-" Lucifer grabbed my shoulder, twisting his expression into one of concern that probably didn't go even an inch deep- "this must have been really tearing you up inside."

"Yeah, it… it feels good to finally be able to say something about it, actually."

"What is a good big brother for if not to help the younger ones along towards realising their true potential?" Lucifer said. "There's an entire world out there for the taking, hell, more than one! We can tear Father's world apart and build a better one with me at the helm. You and Jack can be my right hand and left hand angels. Your little mortal pet can the best equipment that humanity has to offer and- hell, why not- even immortality. You'd never lose him. Never again. And you could kill as many mortals as you wanted whenever you wanted without feeling the need to feel bad about it."

I wished that I could say it sent a chill through me, but adrenaline and I had always been odd friends. Instead of a terrifying dread, a spike of pure excitement raced through the veins of my vessel.

"I.. don't know."

"Think on it," Lucifer said. "I always knew there was something I liked about you, Kalaziel. Two peas in a pod, we are."

He looked up, eyeing the sun in the sky.

"We'd best be getting back, I suppose."

"O-of course," I said. "Right. It was wonderful being able to talk with you again, Luci."

"Likewise, little brother."

Jack was oddly quiet when we returned. He and Sherlock whispered something to each other before the boy scurried over to his father and I.

"Sherlock really is brilliant, John," Jack said. "He really lives up to your stories."

I smiled, fondness warm in my chest, and I ruffled the boy's hair as I gave him a half-hug with one of my wings.

"I have a feeling you'll have some brilliance and stories of your own one day, Jack."

He beamed and returned to his father's side, pausing to wave goodbye before slipping out the door. Lucifer paused as well, sharing a nod with me before following after his son.

"He mentioned Heaven," Sherlock said after a moment.

"Am I going to regret asking how you know?"

"You always have this tension in your shoulders and downtrodden expression on your face. Trying to gain trust by bringing up the good old days, I suppose?"

I tapped my nose.

We fell back into silence but for the occasional clicking of his glass vials and jars as he worked and the faint whine of my chair as I sat down in it.

"You know, Jack told me the most fascinating thing about your sense of taste, John."

Bugger.


End file.
